


Fear & Self-Loathing

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Religious Imagery, Road Trip, Zane!Sylar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-06
Updated: 2008-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene fic between Unexpected and Parasite. After discovering Dale's body, Mohinder and Zane are faced with a thirty-six hour drive back to New York. Mohinder has trouble coming to terms with the brutality of the murder and finds Zane's non-reaction to her death increasingly disturbing. As they drive, Mohinder's suspicions mount that Zane may not be who he says he is, and, trapped beside each other in the car, Mohinder is forced to confront what had happened between them in Montana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stained Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes a massive debt of gratitude to my beta, aurilly, who went above and beyond the call of duty in helping me wrangle it into shape.
> 
> Winner Best Mohinder Characterisation @ the Heroes Slash Awards: Summer 2008  
> Winner Best Road Trip Fic @ the Mylar Fic Awards 2008  
> Winner Best Zane!Sylar Characterisation @ the Mylar Fic Awards 2008

Mohinder gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to concentrate on the road ahead. He was speeding, he knew, and he could feel his leg muscles starting to cramp as he fought against the desire to press the pedal even further to the floor. The adrenaline that had coursed through his veins at the discovery of Dale’s body was beginning to subside, but he still shook uncontrollably as he suppressed the urge to run and scream whenever the sight and smell of the carnage returned to him unbidden. There had been more blood than Mohinder thought could ever have been contained in one person. A tangy, metallic taste was lodged at the back of his throat and he felt himself retching a little every time he swallowed. He dug his nails into the leather of the steering wheel, scraping unconsciously and feeling the dull pain it caused to throb along his fingers. Mohinder glanced at Zane out of the corner of his eye. He was huddled in the passenger seat, hugging his knees to his chest with his face turned away from Mohinder. His head was pressed against the window, and Mohinder thought he was probably in shock. They had driven in silence since leaving the garage, Mohinder realising that neither one wanted to voice the possibility that _he_ could be there now, following them, watching them, stalking them.

_Sylar_.

 

Mohinder’s gut cramped at the thought. A new wave of panic and helplessness rushed over him. Was that his fate, he wondered, remembering Dale’s corpse in vivid, excruciating detail, to be slaughtered like his father by a madman? He was struck by a sudden impulse to laugh at the grim absurdity of it all – it was like a nightmare, a horror film, or an urban legend come to life. The edge of hysteria was pushing at him from all sides and he fought the compulsion to give in to it. His breath was coming in shorter and shallower bursts as he contemplated his own guilt. He had brought a murderer to Dale’s doorstep, he had put Zane in danger, and his folly alone was responsible for the blood that remained in his mind’s eye.

 

“Mohinder, pull over.”

 

Zane’s voice was loud in the silence of the car. His sharp and authoritative tone cut through the white noise of Mohinder’s thoughts and fears. Almost unconsciously he obeyed, bringing the car to a halt at the side of the road. He let his head fall forwards and rest on his hands, giving in for moment to the overwhelming fear, and letting the tremors wrack his body unchecked. Zane’s hand gripped his shoulder firmly. Mohinder could hear the other man saying his name, but it was distant, as if coming from a long way away, and the words became unintelligible as they filtered through the pounding rush of blood in Mohinder’s ears. Zane’s hand was clenching tighter and the sensation pulled Mohinder back a little from the brink. It calmed him to have Zane cling to him and he turned his head to smile weakly at his companion. The look of concern and apprehension on Zane’s face was enough to bring him fully back to himself for the moment.

 

He wondered briefly how far they had travelled, how long they had been driving enveloped in their own despair. He had no concept of how much time had passed; it felt like an eternity, but Mohinder wasn’t sure how far he could realistically have driven in that state. Already he could feel the hysteria leaching from his nerves and his mind scrambled to reassert control: control over his body, control over his emotions and control over the situation. This time when Zane spoke, his words were clear and the anxiety in his voice undeniable.

 

“I think we should stop for a while, Mohinder.”

 

The idea seemed insane. They couldn’t stop and simply wait to be picked off. 

 

“We have to keep going. We need to get back to New York before…”

 

Zane cut him off before he could voice the idea that they too could end up like Dale.

 

“No. Mohinder, it’s a thirty-six hour drive to New York. I can’t drive and you won’t be able to drive that straight through without sleep. We have to stop sometime and with the way you’ve been swerving its better we rest now before we have an accident. I saw a motel about fifteen minutes back up the highway. Please… we need to pull ourselves together.”

 

Zane’s words made sense, but the idea of turning the car around made Mohinder feel queasy. It was too counter-intuitive and too dangerous to head back towards the monster they were fleeing. Be rational, Mohinder yelled at himself. Zane was right; he needed to recover his strength and concentration. The police would have been at the crime scene for hours now, perhaps forcing the killer underground and buying them more time. He looked critically at Zane, remembering his migraine of earlier and noting that he still looked tired; his complexion was pale and drawn. He knew the other man needed rest as much as he did, and in thinking of how best to care for him, Mohinder made his decision. Nodding tersely, he pulled the car back onto the road, turning them back the way they came and looking for the motel. Zane was his responsibility now. Dale’s death may be a spectre that would haunt him for the rest of his life, but in Zane he had a window to his salvation. If he could protect this man from the dangers he had unleashed upon them both, then maybe he would be closer to atoning for the wash of blood that stained his memories.

 

As he pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine, Mohinder could feel his body sag. He was suddenly very aware of how tired and drained he felt. Zane’s hand was on his shoulder again, squeezing reassuringly, and his voice was low and soothing.

 

“Why don’t you just sit here for a minute and I’ll get the room?”

 

Mohinder wanted to laugh as he realised Zane was speaking to him as if he were a child or a convalescing patient. He wanted to shake him and make him understand that he was in control, that it was his job to make Zane feel safe, not the other way around. But most of all he recognised that he wanted to sleep and wake up to find this was all a figment of his tortured imagination. In the end he simply nodded mutely and waited for Zane to return.

 

The sun was still high in the sky and Mohinder supposed it probably wasn’t much later than early afternoon. It seemed wrong somehow for the day to be so bright and crisp; it felt disrespectful and cruel, like the world itself was denying the brutality of what they had seen. However, before Mohinder could slip further into this melancholy reverie, Zane was back.

 

He watched as Zane collected their bags from the trunk and flung them both over one arm. He felt detached from himself as Zane opened his door and bodily lifted him from his seat, arms around his shoulders guiding him to the room. Mohinder, succumbing to his fatigue, allowed himself to be manipulated and manhandled as Zane propped him against the doorframe while unlocking the door. It felt easy and freeing to let Zane take charge and control his movements with small nudges and encouraging looks. For once Mohinder appreciated the release of not thinking and clung to it as long as possible, wanting to keep his consciousness blank and unfettered.

 

_Sylar_.

 

The name jumped across his mind, searing his conscience like a brand. Zane pushed Mohinder into the small bathroom and placed him in front of the sink. Taking Mohinder’s hands in his own, he positioned them on either side of the sink and leaned Mohinder over it. He stroked his back soothingly as Mohinder’s breath came faster and the thoughts that had fleetingly been banished came flooding back stronger and more vividly, as if in punishment for the brief respite he had enjoyed. Zane stepped out of the close confines of the room when his breathing eased and Mohinder could hear him rifling through their bags. He returned after a few moments and thrust Mohinder’s toothbrush in his hand.

 

“Here. Just brush your teeth and wash your face. You’ll feel better after you lie down for a bit.”

 

Mohinder could hear the low rumble of the television and Zane moving around restlessly in the room. He wondered if Dale’s murder was on the news, if Zane was seeing the scene again as he stood there scrubbing the taste of blood and vomit from his mouth. Anger coursed through him at the thought of cameras and gawking reporters leering at the lurid sight of the mutilated corpse. He envisioned sensational headlines and shocking photographs and he clung to the righteous rage the thought inspired. He balled his fists and banged them on the side of the sink. This new fury was far preferable to the hopeless despair that had consumed him before. He rinsed his mouth, the glass held in a vicelike grip. He spat vehemently and smashed the glass down on the side of the sink.

 

The glass shattered loudly. Mohinder’s focus was suddenly narrowed to the splinters of glass falling against the porcelain and digging into his hand. Small drops of blood were welling up in his palm and he opened his fist abruptly, releasing the shards. The scent of iron filled the room and Mohinder felt light-headed as once again he was back in the garage, surrounded by bloodshed. He slid down the wall, pressing his head into the cool tiles, and dry heaved. He wanted to grieve, to lash out, and to panic, but his limbs felt heavy and his breathing was erratic. He doubted he could move even if he had the energy to try. Shock. Hysteria. His rational mind could see the symptoms, but he was powerless to control himself as the smell of blood hung oppressively in the air.

 

“Mohinder…”

 

Zane came rushing into the room. Mohinder watched his movements in slow motion, seeing his expressions as exaggerated caricatures. Zane looked between the glass in the sink and the blood on his palm and Mohinder imagined he must look like a complete wreck, shaking with swollen eyes. Zane crouched beside him and leaned in close. He pressed his face against Mohinder’s and breathed calmly against his ear. He had one hand on Mohinder’s shoulder and the other rested on his chest, over Mohinder’s heart, feeling it thrash beneath his skin. The touch was like a weight holding him down or a pleasant blanket wrapping around him. They remained crouching in silence for a few minutes until Mohinder’s heartbeat slowed and his breathing eased. Then Zane caressed his cheek lightly and pulled him up with a small smile. Without speaking, Zane rinsed the blood and glass from the sink, washing away the smell of death and Mohinder’s fears.

 

“Let’s get this patched up.”

 

Mohinder let Zane hold his hand open and pluck the small slivers of glass from his palm using an old pair of tweezers from the motel medicine cabinet. Zane rinsed the blood off his skin under the tap and hid the marks from view with a tightly wrapped cloth. Zane smiled reassuringly and guided Mohinder from the bathroom to the bed.

 

Mohinder despised him at that moment. He wanted to slap the condescending concern from his face. He wanted Zane to be the one panicking, not him. Zane was the one with evolved DNA, Zane was the one Sylar would be targeting, Zane should be the one quivering not him. He pushed Zane’s hands away petulantly, determined to stand firm on his own feet.

 

“How can you be so calm? A woman was murdered.”

 

“I know. Mohinder, I know. But… I don’t… It doesn’t seem real you know? I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. Besides, freaking out isn’t going to help. Mohinder, you just need to get some rest. We can’t both go to pieces.”

 

Zane pushed him down onto the bed and without thinking Mohinder fisted his hands in his t-shirt and pulled him down on top of him. The mouths met roughly, teeth clacking at the impact. Mohinder flipped them over and pressed his body flush against the length of the other man.

 

Mohinder’s movements were suddenly frantic. He ignored the way Zane was pulling lightly at his hair and simply kissed him deeper, using his teeth to force the other man’s mouth open wider. He pressed his hands solidly against his biceps and pinned him to the mattress. Zane wasn’t struggling or pushing him away. Guilt and arousal mixed in Mohinder’s belly as he felt himself harden rapidly and thrust against Zane’s hips with shameful eagerness. He pushed his thigh between Zane’s legs and rubbed forcefully, wanting to inspire an answering fire in the other man. Mohinder removed his own shirt in a frenzy, parting their lips only for the brief amount of time it took to pull it over his head. He mashed their mouths back together as Zane attempted to speak. He didn’t want to hear excuses or gentle rejections; he wanted to lose himself in the rush of lust and reaffirm his own existence. Zane’s hands were resting on the small of his back and the base of his neck, steadying him but neither holding him close, nor throwing him off.

 

Mohinder knew this was a natural reaction to death, a psychological need to counteract the horror of what they had experienced, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that he was giving in to his baser instincts. He slipped his hands under Zane’s t-shirt and held his palms flat against the undulating muscles of his stomach. He was breathing heavily again but for the first time today there was no undercurrent of panic. He writhed and pressed himself more wantonly against the other man’s body, desperate to reach the blissful oblivion of release. Slowly he came to realise that Zane was not responding to his caresses. He lay underneath him, relaxed and passive, letting Mohinder hump his leg and nip at his jaw.

 

Suddenly embarrassed, Mohinder pulled back, flushed, and licked his lips. His erection receded a bit as he realised he didn’t even know if Zane was at all interested in men, let alone if he returned Mohinder’s attraction. The past few days had been spent as friends, exchanging a relaxed banter that could just as easily have been a companionable connection as interested flirtation. Worry and confusion twisted in Mohinder’s gut as he wondered if he had just made the situation worse for Zane, giving him the extra burden of having to reject his advances on top of what they had already been through. He felt flustered as the impropriety of his actions came rushing home to him – he was throwing himself at a man he hardly knew while a woman lay dead by what may as well have been his own hands. He didn’t deserve this escape but he wanted it desperately. His fingers clutched convulsively at Zane’s skin as he tried to gain some control over his own feelings, if not the situation.

 

“Zane, I…”

 

He wanted to apologise or explain or cajole, but his voice broke and he began to hyperventilate. To his surprise, he found Zane sitting up and pressing his lips back to Mohinder’s. He stole the frantic pants from Mohinder’s lungs and soothed him with his tongue. His hands were moving now, caressing his skin and petting Mohinder into tranquillity. Gently Zane manoeuvred them around, settling Mohinder back against the pillows and rubbing his hands tenderly over his stomach. Heady desire mounted once again in Mohinder’s crotch but it was less frenzied now, the edge of desperation gone. He mouthed along Zane’s neck, and began again to thrust shallowly into his leg. Zane’s touches became increasingly sexual, pressing firmly into his skin and rubbing at his nipples.

 

“Please Zane.”

 

Zane silenced him with a kiss, and slipped his hand down through the sweat coating Mohinder’s torso. More boldly than Mohinder would have expected, he opened Mohinder’s jeans and grasped his throbbing dick. His touch was firm and hot and it made Mohinder cry out into his mouth. Zane’s stubble scraped along his jaw as he pressed his lips to Mohinder’s ear.

 

“Shh… it’s ok. I’m going to take care of you Mohinder. I’m going to make you feel better.”

 

The words were slurred with desire as Zane mumbled through abused lips. His hand began to slide over Mohinder’s cock in a slow, steady rhythm. He let himself get lost in the exquisite pulling and tugging, in the divine way he ran his thumb over the head and spread Mohinder’s essence back over himself. The pleasure was potent, and so much stronger than it should have been. Zane’s technique wasn’t anything spectacular and Mohinder knew it wasn’t the hand job so much as the connection and vitality of what they were doing that was thrilling him to his core and pushing out the empty horror that had settled there. He was peaking quickly, almost pathetically so, and he scrambled at Zane’s fly, suddenly desperate to take him over the edge too. 

 

“_Fuck,_” Zane grunted in his ear as Mohinder freed his dick and began to jack him off with lithe fingers and deft movements. The cloth that had been wound about his palm had long since worked its way loose and Mohinder shuddered at the painfully sublime feeling of Zane’s taut flesh rubbing against his raw and bleeding skin. Zane was rolling his hips and Mohinder realised he must have been just as desperate for release as he was. Grabbing the other man’s ass with his free hand, Mohinder pulled Zane close to him so that their hands and cocks were brushing up against each other, slipping and skidding in a mixture of their sweat and pre-come. Mohinder’s world narrowed to the tantalising flashes of ecstasy running up and down his spine and with a twist of Zane’s wrist he was there, coming strong and fast, leaving his release all over Zane’s hand and his own stomach. Just as Mohinder’s body was going limp, he felt Zane tense, and with an extended groan, he came, too. Mohinder’s abdomen was a mess of their combined fluids, but he didn’t care; he simply wrapped his arms around Zane’s neck, marking him with a touch of blood and come, and held him in a tight embrace. He didn’t want him to ever leave or pull away.

 

“Zane…”

 

“Sleep. It’s ok, just relax and sleep.”

 

Mohinder’s limbs felt heavy and lifeless and he let himself sink back into the sheets as a contented calm enveloped him. He felt Zane settle against his side and pull the blankets over their spent bodies. Mohinder slipped into blissful unconsciousness, his mind finally free of murder.


	2. Sticky

Mohinder awoke alone in the bed, wincing from the pale sunlight coming through the half-drawn curtains of the motel room. He was naked under the blankets wrapped tightly around his body. Zane must have stripped him of his soiled jeans and underwear and tucked him in once he had fallen asleep. The thought was a warm sliver in the otherwise oppressive dread that filled his body when he recalled the events of earlier. Mohinder’s stomach was still stained with the evidence of their union and his palm was coated with dried blood and semen. He wanted to go scrub himself clean, but getting up and leaving the cocoon of blankets would mean facing what had happened and, although feeling infinitely calmer than before, Mohinder wanted to delay dealing with the responsibilities that lay ahead – keeping Zane safe, planning their next move, coming to terms with Dale’s death.

He could hear the low rumble of the television in the background. It was still tuned to a music video channel, presumably where Zane had abandoned his search for a local news network to tend to Mohinder in the bathroom. Mohinder began to wonder where Zane was, and a cold dread rushed through his veins. He had assumed the other man was in the bathroom, but the door was ajar and he couldn’t hear water running. Suddenly completely alert, Mohinder moved to get up when he heard a key being slipped into the lock of the door. His senses felt heightened as adrenaline coursed through his body. He fumbled at the nightstand and grasped the heavy, old fashioned telephone in his hands. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but with enough force it could deliver a damaging blow. He didn’t have time to consider the futility of his actions in the face of a super-powered serial killer. If this was to be his final moment, the scene – naked, post-coital, and defending himself with an outdated household appliance – seemed a fittingly absurd end to a life that had become one long suspension of disbelief.

“Mohinder?”

Zane’s voice was filled with concern, calling out as he stepped through the threshold. It was as if he could sense Mohinder’s agitation even before he could see him. He knew the idea was illogical but, like realizing that Zane had enclosed him protectively in the sheets and feeling his come still on his palm, it stoked a pleasant feeling within him. Mohinder put down the phone sheepishly, hoping Zane hadn’t noticed, and marvelled at how adolescent his feelings for the other man had become. Before Dale’s death, he had enjoyed Zane’s company and found him attractive, but had had no desire to seduce him, content to idly flirt and discuss genetics. Now, after a desperate bout of sex---if it could even be called that---he felt connected and deeply attached. Mohinder told himself it was a consequence of their situation, that a reaction to the traumatic events had artificially intensified his feelings, but part of him still thrilled at the sense of partnership and future potential.

“Mohinder, you’re awake. I went to get us some tea from the diner across the road. I’m sorry if I worried you. I thought you’d still be asleep when I got back.”

He thought he had disguised his distress well; there was nothing but a rapid pulse to give him away, and yet Zane had instantly seen it and sought to appease him. Zane placed the cups on the nightstand and perched on the bed next to him. Without thinking, Mohinder leaned his head forward onto his shoulder and nuzzled his face into his t-shirt. He gripped Zane’s hips and slipped the thumb of his filthy hand through the belt loop of his jeans, tugging on it slightly. Zane wrapped his arms loosely about Mohinder and rested his head on his curls. Zane’s damp hair tickled Mohinder’s scalp. Although he had showered while Mohinder slept, Zane had once again donned his clothing from earlier in the day. A faint smell of sweat and sex and the scent of his own skin were infused in the soft material, and Mohinder breathed it in deeply as Zane rubbed his back. He pressed a chaste kiss to Zane’s neck where it met his shoulder and sighed into him. Mohinder wanted to sit there, surrounded by Zane’s arms and his essence, but already guilt was tugging at the back of his mind. Zane had comforted him enough today and now he should be the one to take control and make Zane feel safe.

“How’s your head?”

“Mmm?”

“Your migraine. Is it any better?”

“Oh, yeah, much better thanks.”

Mohinder pulled back out of the embrace and looked at Zane’s face. He did seem less sickly, and was no longer shying away from noises or bright lights like he had in the car. With a nod of thanks he took a sip of the tea and tried not to react as Zane rubbed his arm lightly. He was suddenly acutely aware of his own nudity and tactfully pulled the blankets back around him from where they had fallen to the bedside in his panic. He bit his lip as the silence grew awkward, neither one of them wanting to speak first. Finally, Zane cupped his hand under Mohinder’s jaw and forced his head up. His words were oblique but the intent was clear. Mohinder appreciated his discretion.

“How are you feeling?”   
_Are you going to panic again?_

“Better.”   
_I refuse to think about it._

“We can spend the night here if you like.”   
_I don’t believe that you’re ok._

“No, we need to get moving again as soon as possible.”   
_If we don’t keep going I won’t be able to cope._

“We should eat before we go.”   
_I’m giving you an out, if you want to take it._

“We can eat in the car.”   
_I’m in charge now. Don’t treat me like a child._

At that, Zane nodded, acquiescing to Mohinder’s unspoken demand. He stood up and withdrew from Mohinder’s personal space. Zane passed him his overnight bag before averting his gaze as Mohinder wrapped the sheet modestly around himself and shuffled into the bathroom.

***

Mohinder stood under the warm beat of the shower, letting the water run in rivulets down his face. He felt refreshed and exonerated as panic and guilt were slaked off his body, displaced by his soapy hands to swirl in the drain like tangible dirt and grime. He wore his fear like a shield now. It was a hard outer shell that would protect him, a guiding force that would temper his decisions and a constant reminder that he was still alive.

_Sylar._

Mohinder scrubbed at his stomach, scouring the last of Zane from his skin. He felt purer then, but at the same time curiously bereft without the physical stain of their actions. He held his hand open under the spray of water and worked the soap into the bloody, caked mess. Mohinder held onto that the stinging feeling; the sharp visceral sensation a reminder to remain alert and aware. The small cuts were reopened and soon fresh blood mingled with the water at his feet. The metallic scent no longer made his breath quicken or his pulse rise. He could regard it coldly, disinterestedly inspecting his palm to ensure there was no infection.

_Sylar._

He could think of the monster with a certain detachment now. He considered, dispassionately, that Dale’s senseless death was not wholly in vain. It was a tragedy, to be sure, but a tragedy that brought home to him the realities of his situation. Of their situation. Zane was bound to him now, and whether it was because of the sex or the trauma or Mohinder’s own guilt was irrelevant. They were targeted and threatened, but the simple fact that they were together might be enough to see them through this.

_Sylar._

Mohinder pressed his freshly bloodied palm to the cool tile above his head. He tried not to think how different his circumstances were from his father’s. He willed himself not to imagine the terror and solitude his father must have felt dealing with this same murderer alone. It seemed certain Chandra had never confided in Eden, had never connected with her the way Mohinder had with Zane, and it made his gut twist with guilt and shame to think that his father’s last moments were spent in the agony of despair that had tortured Mohinder earlier.

_Sylar._

His nails dug into the grout and he groped at himself with his other hand. He cupped his balls and hastily grappled with his flaccid cock. He ignored his usual distaste for this type of self-indulgence and pulled roughly at his flesh. He needed to rediscover the calm of before and shut away the thoughts that sought to derail his newfound sense of purpose. His orgasm was quick and uninspired but it sufficed to settle his nerves. The evidence of his actions was swiftly erased by the flowing water.

_Sylar._

Mohinder dried himself off, flinching at the residual pain from his palm and the brusque way he had handled his body. He slipped into a fresh set of clothes and he felt reborn and invigorated. Exiting the bathroom, he left behind him the spectre of the killer and instead armed himself to face the reality.

***

Zane regarded him silently as Mohinder packed away the last of his clothes and zipped up his bag. He was lounging back on his hands, calm and relaxed, cocking his head as if trying to catch a half-remembered thought or eavesdrop on a whispered conversation. Zane’s gaze seemed to look through him and Mohinder wondered if the gravity of their situation was finally hitting him. He reached out a hand to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly when Zane’s eyes suddenly narrowed. Mohinder’s hand faltered and dropped to his side. His heart skipped a beat at the abrupt intensity in Zane’s look. A wide grin spread across his face as he stood up. Zane patted Mohinder on the arm and moving towards the door, taking Mohinder’s bag from his unresisting hands.

Mohinder stared at the back of his head for a moment before following him, feeling faintly disgusted at Zane’s apparent lack of concern for Dale’s demise. He tried to tell himself that his own reaction to the situation had hardly been more respectful but, perhaps unfairly, he couldn’t seem to equate the two. His own actions had been hasty and frenzied, a sudden and impulsive response. In contrast, Zane was calm and collected, every action precise and calculated. Mohinder grabbed Zane’s bicep and dug his fingers in more firmly than he needed to, spinning the other man around to confront him. He took in Zane’s slightly shocked expression, and the way he chewed at his bottom lip and looked down at Mohinder in confusion. He looked every inch the bashful and nervous man Mohinder had first met in Virginia Beach. Mohinder loosened his grip and ran his thumb soothingly over the bruised skin. He saw now that Zane’s callous veneer was nothing but a protective mask to conceal his anxiety from Mohinder, no doubt out of fear of upsetting him again. He felt chastened and met Zane’s look with a small smile of his own.

“How are you feeling?”

Mohinder’s question echoed their earlier exchange. Zane seemed to recognise that and awkwardly pulled him forward into a quick embrace. The corner of the bag dug into Mohinder’s shoulder but he stood still and let Zane take the comfort that he obviously needed. With a quick peck to the top of Mohinder’s head, Zane pulled away and opened the door. He shrugged with his back to Mohinder and replied, “Better.”

“About earlier…” Mohinder started as they walked towards to the small office. He trailed off, unsure of how to broach the subject or even what he really wanted to say. I love you would be a lie, no matter how much the words pressed at his lips. I needed that seemed both too honest and too close to the selfish truth.

“… thank you,” he finally said, realising he wasn’t just speaking about the sex anymore but about the strength and consolation he had pulled from Zane’s presence. He opened his mouth to elaborate, but Zane just shrugged and looked sheepishly at his feet, a gentle blush settling on his cheeks. Mohinder didn’t want to embarrass the other man, so the words dried up on his tongue. He reached out and grasped the other man’s hand. For a moment Zane regarded him with a bemused expression, his eyes darting between Mohinder’s face and their now entwined fingers. Then, as Mohinder gently squeezed his hand, he smiled and squeezed back, pulling Mohinder closer beside him.

“You’re welcome.”

***

As they waited for Mohinder’s credit card to clear, Mohinder stared transfixed as Zane absently toyed with a pen. He flicked it through his fingers with acute dexterity, never letting it fall to the ground; the angles and trajectories of the pen’s movement sometimes seemed to defy the laws of physics. The clerk cleared her throat and they both started, laughing a little as they were shaken from their thoughts. Zane passed him the pen to sign the receipt and slung his arm loosely around Mohinder’s waist, oblivious to the cool way the clerk eyed them.

Mohinder thanked the clerk, flushing as he realised what she must be thinking. He was freshly showered and Zane’s clothes reeked of sex as they paid for three hours use of a motel room at midday. He blushed further to think that whatever the conclusions the clerk had no doubt jumped to, they were ultimately correct. Whatever his excuses or motivations, Mohinder realised he had essentially rented a motel room for an afternoon quickie. He questioned for a moment when he had become this person, someone who accosted others like a madman and welcomed perfect strangers into his car and along on his journey. It was the same blind faith that had driven his father to leave India and the same conviction that had led them both to a killer.

_Sylar._

Zane’s arm tightened as he felt Mohinder stiffen and tense, guiding him away from the check-out desk and to the door.

“Faggots.”

Mumbled and barely above a whisper, Mohinder still caught the clerk’s foul remark. He paused and pushed his shoulders back before simply shaking his head and walking away. Zane, however, gasped as if the slur had been hurled at them loudly and obscenely. He stumbled a little over his own feet and dropped the pen he had collected from the counter where Mohinder had left it. Instead of clattering to the ground, Mohinder watched as it lengthened and liquidised, landing with a wet squelch on the threshold.

_Sylar._

Mohinder grabbed Zane by the elbow and pulled him hastily towards the car. He looked over his shoulder and surveyed the parking lot, taking in his surroundings as he all but frogmarched Zane across the asphalt. He unlocked the car door and pushed Zane inside with a hand on the back of his neck, steadying his head as if apprehending a prisoner. Mohinder quelled Zane’s attempted protests with a look and shut the door firmly. He stopped to look around once more, and felt calmer when nothing out the ordinary came to his attention. With a deep breath he slid behind the wheel, pulling out as swiftly as he could. He wanted to put as much distance between them and the motel as humanly possible before anyone noticed the puddle of plastic on the front step - the telltale evidence of their whereabouts.


	3. Yielding

Mohinder’s heartbeat filled the car as they drove. It was a rapid pounding in Sylar’s ears that underscored the creak of the shifting gears and the rumble of the tyres on the road. He pulled the sleeves of his t-shirt over his hands and hugged his knees to his chest as he immersed himself in Mohinder’s aural presence. Sylar could hear the muscles and tendons of the other man’s hands contracting as he squeezed the steering wheel. He listened to the answering groan of the leather and the cracking of the scabs on Mohinder’s palm. It was all Sylar could do not to respond to Mohinder’s hiss of pain as it rang in his ears.

 

Already, he had more control over this ability than Dale had ever mastered. Sylar didn’t need loud music or isolation to drown out the world’s cacophony. Careful to keep his own face impassive and turned away, he simply listened to the man beside him. Mohinder was holding his breath. His neck clicked as he repeatedly peered in the rear view mirror. Sylar heard the slippery slide of his eyeballs darting from side to side as he scanned the road for signs that they were being pursued. Slowly, Mohinder finally exhaled. It was a long, soft sigh of layered and cautious relief.

 

Sylar wondered if this was what telepathy felt like. It was as if he was inside Mohinder’s mind, reading his thoughts and emotions by his physical reactions. An intense sense of power rushed over him knowing what Mohinder was thinking before he did. Synapses were crackling up and down his spine and the nerves branching throughout his body sounded like they were rattling in agitation under Mohinder’s skin. The tension in his shoulders and the irregular pace of his breath were the unconscious hallmarks of Mohinder’s fear – hallmarks that by now, Sylar could read like an open book.

 

Mohinder suddenly reached over, grabbed his hand and pressed their palms together. Sylar kept his eyes downcast and bit at his lips as he held Mohinder’s hand close. As their skin warmed against each other, Mohinder’s heartbeat slowed and settled while Sylar’s own sped up. He listened to his body reacting to Mohinder’s simple touch. Every feeling was intensified by the audio reel that now accompanied it. Sylar sat fascinated by the sounds of his palm sweating and the hum of his own blood and hormones moving downwards at the other’s grasp. His cock began to harden a little and brush pleasantly against the cotton of his underwear. Now it was Sylar’s turn to sigh softly, but the noise was drowned out by the rustle of his clothes as he shifted in his seat.

 

Sylar flinched as Mohinder abruptly took his hand back. He whipped his head around in time to see Mohinder smile apologetically at him while he worked the gearshift. With a soft tap of his nails against the resin of the handle, Mohinder seemed to imply that wouldn’t have let go if it hadn’t been necessary. The loss had caught Sylar off-guard and his palm felt cold and clammy without Mohinder’s wrapped around it. He quickly arranged his face into Zane’s simpering smile. Sylar realised he had been so caught up in the noise of his own visceral responses that he had filtered out Mohinder’s. He would be more cautious in the future.

 

‘We need to be more careful, Zane.’

 

Mohinder’s words were so in tune with his own thoughts that Sylar had to scramble to recall the appropriate context: the motel, the pen, and Mohinder’s fears. He knew the confusion must have flickered across his face because Mohinder drew in a breath and continued.

 

‘I know you don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to either, but we need to face this situation. Sylar is after us. What happened to Dale… Just, please…’ Mohinder’s words trailed off as he turned to glance at Sylar. ‘I can’t let that happen to you, too.’

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Sylar mumbled. He bit the inside of his cheek and held back a perverse laugh. As if it mattered what Mohinder would _let_ happen. As if it mattered what happened to someone as insignificant as Zane.

 

Mohinder brushed the back of his hand lightly against Sylar’s cheek. Sylar watched as his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. He listened as the tip swept moistly over his chapped lips. It was a habit Sylar had come to know as one of Mohinder’s nervous tics. Looking up at Mohinder from where he rested his head on his knees, he opened his eyes wide and smiled as sweetly as he could manage. Sylar knew he looked sad and pitiful, and he knew that Mohinder took everything at face value.

 

‘Don’t apologise, just be more careful,’ Mohinder said in a low and comforting voice, ‘I know it must be hard to control sometimes.’

 

Sylar nodded slowly, inwardly rankling at the allegation. He had perfect control. He had liberated these powers from those who had none, from those who weren’t worthy of their evolutionary advantage. He clenched his hands until his knuckles were white. Zane Taylor, Charlie Andrews, Dale Smither, and Brian Davis – they were who Mohinder was talking about and they were nothing like him.

 

Mohinder pulled into a gas station and shut off the car at the pump. Sylar turned to open his door but Mohinder cupped his head and pulled him down for a kiss. The hum of blood running through their veins resounded in the enclosed space. The grate of their tongues and the slick sounds of their lips drowned out everything else.

 

Sylar’s sexual experience didn’t extend beyond the past few hours but he could read Mohinder’s body and he knew intuitively what was expected of him. Mohinder inspired the kind of fiery passion that Sylar, _Gabriel_, used to deride as the failing of lesser men. But this was neither the obscene lust his mother had vilified nor the misguided infatuation his Church had warned against. Mohinder was special. Their destiny was entwined. Mohinder was at once both a challenge to his fate and the repayment of his karma. When faced with Mohinder, Sylar couldn’t immediately see what made him tick and that intrigued him.

 

Sylar tilted his head and Mohinder pulled him closer, nipping at his bottom lip. He drew back and studied the other man’s face before clasping Mohinder’s head to his shoulder, sating Mohinder’s continual need for closeness. Sylar stroked his hair and made soothing noises as Mohinder rubbed his face against his collar bone.

 

‘Zane…’

 

Sylar tensed briefly at the name that wasn’t his. He wanted to flinch away from the pretence that stood between them and subverted their relationship. With a shake of his head, Sylar grunted in response and wrapped his arms tighter around the other’s slim body. Mohinder seemed so small and defenceless and yet, even without powers and abilities, he was the most extraordinary person Sylar had ever known. Mohinder pulled out of the embrace and smiled widely. Sylar hesitated, not understanding the look in Mohinder’s eyes, and then gave a small, shy grin in return.

 

‘Everything is going to be ok. I’m going to take care of you.’

 

‘I know,’ Sylar replied. It may not have been what Mohinder meant, but it was true, he could give Sylar everything that Chandra had failed to provide.

 

***

 

Sylar wandered through the aisles of the small convenience store, collecting supplies as Mohinder filled the gas tank. Mohinder seemed fully in control again and they were making good time. Sylar was eager to keep the other man’s strength up. He grabbed apples and cheese sandwiches from the shelves in deference to Mohinder’s vegetarian diet. He picked up a bottle of fruit juice, and, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure Mohinder was still outside, chilled it with his hand before tossing it in the basket. Sylar chose soda for himself, along with a handful of candy bars and gum. He hesitated for a second, knowing Mohinder didn’t eat junk food, but they needed to keep their blood sugar high. He scanned the shelves looking for anything else that might be useful.

 

On a whim, he snatched up a box of condoms and dumped it in with the food, not examining the package or slowing his pace down the aisle. He got to the register just as Mohinder was entering the store to pay for the gas. Sylar shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as Mohinder watched the items being scanned, nodding approvingly at his choice in sandwiches and rolling his eyes good naturedly at the assortment of candy and chocolate. Sylar bit his lip as the condoms were scanned. He ignored the blush on his own cheeks and studied Mohinder, whose only reaction was to raise his eyebrows a little and smile knowingly to himself.

 

Sylar let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and reached out to rest his hand on the small of Mohinder’s back. Just as his skin made contact with the soft material of Mohinder’s shirt, he pulled his hand back again, recalling the reaction of the motel clerk. His eyes flickered to the teen working the register, but the boy merely mumbled the total and held out his hand for the cash. As Sylar paid, he noted out of the corner of his eye, that Mohinder was staring at him. He stood aside to let Mohinder pay for the gas but instead found Mohinder tugging his head down to whisper in his ear. He pressed the car keys into Sylar’s hand and pecked him on the cheek.

 

‘I’m just going to grab a few more things. I’ll meet you in the car, ok?’

 

Sylar cocked his head to the side, wondering what it was that he had forgotten, but Mohinder was already heading to the back of the store. He walked slowly to the car, tossing the keys in his hand. Ignoring them, he unlocked the car with a thought and pulled the passenger door open with his mind. Sylar rummaged in the bag for a candy bar as he floated the key into the ignition, telekinetically turned it, and flipped on the radio.

 

He let the news report of Dale’s death wash over him. Sylar felt nothing but contempt for the ridiculous theories offered by the reporters as to the motive and method of execution. A few moments were all it took to confirm that the authorities had no clue what they were dealing with. In the blink of an eye he switched frequencies, settling on a classic rock station more in tune with what Zane would have chosen.

 

Sylar could hear Mohinder as he approached and looked up to watch him walk towards the car. In the dimming light of the early evening, Mohinder looked striking. Physical attraction was not something he had concerned himself with before, but now Sylar found himself fingering the box of condoms and fantasising about Mohinder’s hands moving on his body again. He replayed their earlier orgasms in his mind, stiffening at the memory of Mohinder’s grunts and pleas. In that moment, Mohinder had truly been his. Sylar thought back to what he had said the previous day about karma and destiny. Mohinder may have scoffed, but it was the truth – fate had brought them together.

 

If Chandra had been his Judas then he wanted Mohinder to be his Peter. A believer, a disciple and a rock; the closest he could have to an equal. Chandra had been a charlatan. He was a false prophet who had been unable to deal with the miracle he had created in Sylar. Already Mohinder was so much more than his father had could ever have been. Beyond the validation he provided with his awe at Zane’s simple ability, Mohinder was his friend. He listened when Sylar spoke and seemed to understand. The sense of connection was both inexplicable and undeniable. He quivered, recalling what it was like to have Mohinder cling to and beg for him. Since Sylar didn’t have the ability to stop time and relive it, he would simply have to recreate that moment over and over again. Partnership and power – Mohinder was the key that could grant him everything he desired.

 

He pushed aside the uncomfortable truth that, like Peter to Jesus, Mohinder would deny him in the end. Sylar didn’t want to think about the time that would come when he would have to destroy Mohinder but he knew that too was their destiny. Did Mohinder have the capacity to see beyond the petty, _human,_ concern with murder that had so bothered Chandra? Could Mohinder see Sylar’s accumulation of power for what it was: an undeniable, immutable evolutionary imperative? If _Zane_ and his uninspiring power of liquidation had aroused Mohinder’s interest and affection, then surely Sylar, even now exponentially more than Zane could ever have hoped to become, would be able to retain it?

 

Mohinder smiled at him through the windshield. Sylar tried to ignore his fear that Mohinder might be like his father after all: too weak-willed to come to terms with the necessary steps Sylar has taken. Completely unbidden his mind’s ear is filled with the soft thrum of chanting voices, the Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer intoned in his subconscious. Sylar pulled at his hair and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the superstitious nonsense that had once been his solace. He thought of the hours spent praying for forgiveness, covered in blood and sin. Envy, theft and murder had all marked him, but Sylar had finally succumbed to the sin of despair. There was no God, he told himself, no God but the one he had made himself into. Salvation was impossible now, and yet, as Mohinder got back into the car and squeezed his knee, Sylar found himself wanting desperately to be forgiven.

 

Mohinder passed him two bottles of mineral water and a small tube of lubricant before restarting the car and pulling out of the gas station. Sylar dropped the water with the rest of the food on the backseat and stared at the tube in his hand, not really seeing it. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as a vague sense of unease settled over him.

 

‘Are you alright, Zane?’

 

‘Dunno,’ Sylar muttered, speaking at once both the truth and a lie. He had assumed the doctor was nothing more than a means to an end. But now, having lain in his arms, the choice between power and companionship long since decided, Mohinder made Sylar feel strangely uncertain about his chosen path.

 

***

 

Sylar was curled up in the passenger seat, the backrest tilted down and his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He should have been sleeping, but instead he sat with half-lidded eyes and watched Mohinder as he drove. The moon was high in the sky, a bright light in the inky blackness that fell on their surroundings. They were on a deserted patch of highway, midway between two towns and for several hours they had driven in a deafening silence. Mohinder had insisted that he get some rest. Sylar sensed that as much as Mohinder was concerned for his health, he also just wanted some time to himself to brood.

 

Mohinder was still alert. He picked half-heartedly at some chocolate and muttered to himself or the radio when the mood struck. Every so often, his heart would pound furiously and the car would speed up and Sylar could tell without asking that a wave of panic had edged its way into Mohinder’s body. After a few minutes it always passed. Sylar listened to the sounds of his muscles relaxing and the soft, self deprecating chuckle that escaped Mohinder’s lips whenever he became conscious of his own foolishness.

 

‘Still can’t sleep?’ Mohinder asked quietly, stroking his side.

 

Sylar stretched and sat up a little, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He shook his head. Shrugging, Sylar waited for Mohinder to continue.

 

‘Want to talk about it?’ Mohinder kept his eyes on the road ahead and Sylar looked out the passenger window at the stars. He felt Mohinder’s hand settle on his shoulder, and then a soothing warmth as he massaged it.

 

‘I’m just scared, I guess. About what’s going to happen.’

 

‘Oh, Zane…’ Mohinder moaned softly, responding to the honesty in Sylar’s voice, even if he wasn’t talking about what Mohinder thought he was. He stopped the car at the side of the road and gently pulled on Sylar’s shoulder, gathering him into his arms. Sylar clung to him and let Mohinder comfort him. Their hearts beat in sync. They breathed in time. Mohinder’s fingers swept consolingly through his hair. He didn’t speak, but Sylar didn’t want him to. He didn’t want to be called _Zane_ and he didn’t want to be lied to.

 

Using the strength of his arms and a subtle hint of telekinesis, Sylar pulled the other man into his lap. He settled back in the seat and held Mohinder by his hips. He looked down on Sylar with a surprised expression that softened as he reached out a hand and gently traced the lines of Sylar’s face. Sylar’s eyes drifted closed with a sigh as Mohinder brushed his fingers along his brow and down his jaw.

 

Mohinder pressed a delicate kiss to his cheekbone. Sylar opened his eyes and found himself staring deep into Mohinder’s own, only inches away. With a quick movement, he gripped the side of Mohinder’s face and held him still.

 

‘It’s meant to be like this, isn’t it?’ Sylar whispered.

 

He didn’t let Mohinder pull away. He knew he was making the other man uncomfortable, squirming as he was under the intensity of Sylar’s gaze, but he didn’t care. Sylar dug his fingers deeper in Mohinder’s hip. He needed Mohinder to agree.

 

‘Destiny brought us together like this, Mohinder. Things were supposed to happen this way.’

 

He searched Mohinder’s face. He was nodding slowly but Sylar knew Mohinder didn’t truly understand; knew he couldn’t truly understand. Sylar let go his hold on him and resisted the urge to throw Mohinder from him in frustration. Sometimes Mohinder was too much like his father: obsessed with evidence and reason, refusing to see what was before him until it was verified by science.

 

‘…Yes,’ Mohinder mumbled, leaning forward again and trying to kiss the tension from Sylar’s face. ‘Za—’

 

Sylar cut him off with a bruising kiss. He tangled his hand in Mohinder’s hair and crushed their lips together, moaning as Mohinder ground down into Sylar’s lap. Mohinder was pressing on his shoulders and he must have pulled the lever because they were falling backwards, lying now as horizontal as the seat would go. Mohinder lay over him and pressed the length of their bodies flush against each other. Their legs twisted together and their hands stroked each other’s chests. It was cramped and uncomfortable but it didn’t matter. To speak or suggest a move to the backseat would shatter the spell. For now they just kissed.

 

Sylar was overcome with the sound and feel of Mohinder. He let his senses be taken over and pretended for a moment that Mohinder knew who and what he was. His own cry sounded loud and pathetic in his ears as Mohinder drew back. Sylar pulled Mohinder’s face down again, burying the man’s nose into the soft t-shirt at his chest. Sylar didn’t want to see the look of pity and concern that would be dancing across Mohinder’s features. He didn’t want to acknowledge that the affection Mohinder felt wasn’t for him at all.

 

Suddenly, Mohinder was lifting Sylar’s hips off the seat and tugging his jeans down. His t-shirt was pushed up to his ribs and his stomach was wet from Mohinder’s lips but he couldn’t recall when that had happened. Everything seemed to be happening in both slow motion and at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. Knots of guilt and unhappiness were twisting in his gut as anticipation and disappointment warred in his veins. His whole body was shaking and now Mohinder was sitting back on his knees and watching him fall apart.

 

‘Tell me I’m special,’ he begged.

 

Mohinder’s hand slipped around his erection and caressed him.

 

‘So special,’ he murmured into Sylar’s ear, smiling at him as Sylar groaned.

 

Mohinder scrambled off his lap and back into the other seat. He braced himself with one hand on Sylar’s knee, his hip pressing against the steering wheel. Sylar could hear the head of the gearshift rubbing against Mohinder’s sternum and he knew the position must be uncomfortable.

 

‘So special,’ Mohinder mumbled, again and again between the kisses he dropped on Sylar’s rigid shaft. His nimble fingers were rubbing and twisting around him, spreading the wetness from his lips. Sylar let his head fall back and rolled his hips. Ecstasy masked his earlier apprehension and he lost himself in the quick, deft flicks of Mohinder’s tongue.

 

‘Very special.’

 

Mohinder took him between his lips and sucked. Sylar cried out and grabbed the back of Mohinder’s head, holding him in place. It was true. He was special. He was unique and powerful and he knew that, deep down, Mohinder could see that truth through the façade of Zane. Sylar’s hips bucked upwards and he pushed Mohinder’s face further into his groin. He felt the other man gag a little, but Mohinder didn’t struggle.

 

Sylar cried out as he came, accepting the worship he knew was his due. His body was shivering violently and he let Mohinder fondle and stroke him until he calmed. Sylar watched as Mohinder cleaned and redressed him before cracking his neck with a wry smile and wincing at the bruise forming on his chest.

 

Mohinder weaved his upper body between their seats and grabbed his coat off the backseat. He covered Sylar in the heavy material and swept his dishevelled hair from his forehead. Sylar could hear Mohinder’s tongue running along his teeth and knew he must be rolling Sylar’s taste in his mouth. One tender kiss on the cheek and Mohinder started the car again with a weary sigh.

 

Sylar rolled away from him and touched his fingers to his wet cheek. Soon Mohinder would know precisely how special he was and everything would be irrevocably changed.


	4. Candy

Mohinder squinted in the morning sunlight. His shoulders were tense and he could feel fatigue settling into his muscles and joints. They had made good time driving through the night and early morning but they would have to stop again soon or Mohinder would risk falling asleep at the wheel. He glanced at Zane before turning up the volume on the radio a little, and smiled as the other man snuffled and murmured in his sleep. An upbeat pop song filled the car and Mohinder felt his spirits lift at the sound of the frivolous lyrics. He supposed he should shut off the music – bobbing his head in time to the beat didn’t seem very appropriate – but it was too exhausting being on edge all the time, being alert.

 

The time between Zane falling asleep and the sun starting to rise had been harrowing. There was a constant prickling at the back of Mohinder’s neck and, time and again, he had had to forcibly remind himself that there was nothing inherently menacing in the darkness. Even Zane’s soft, measured breathing beside him and the hand he had slipped onto Mohinder’s thigh as he drifted off to sleep did nothing to mitigate the intense loneliness and acute dread that had washed over him.

 

Ridiculous fears had played at the back of his mind, amplified by the night. In his mind's eye Sylar became a grotesque fiend: dark and imposing, spattered in blood and reeking of death. Mohinder half-expected to see cruel, murderous eyes staring back at him with each glance in the rear view mirror. Mohinder’s nerves were shot. Even without the added shades of his macabre imagination, Sylar truly was the stuff of nightmares.

 

Three am had been the blackest hour. Zane had been asleep for awhile by then and the sounds of his snores and the low rumble of the radio had faded into a white noise that Mohinder barely registered. The highway was deserted and he let his mind wander as he drove automatically. He allowed himself, guiltily, to delve into fantasy, imagining a time when he could properly make love to Zane. It wouldn’t be hurried or cramped. They wouldn’t be motivated by fear and their kisses wouldn’t be tainted with their own mortality. It would be gentle, slow, and tender. Mohinder would lay Zane out below him and worship his body. If only they could see a time not haunted and hunted as they were, Mohinder would spend hours lavishing attention on Zane’s lips alone.

 

He had dropped a hand to his lap and adjusted himself. Mohinder rubbed his cock lightly through his jeans, indulging in a little comfort where he could. As he drove across state lines, static suddenly crackled loudly on the radio.

 

_Sylar_.

 

Mohinder had literally jumped in his seat, his heart pounding rapidly. Zane snorted and turned his face away from the sound, blissfully unaware of the shivers creeping up and down Mohinder’s spine and the goose pimples careening over his skin. Mohinder smacked his hand sharply against the dashboard. He hadn’t cared that he might startle Zane awake. He had been overcome with anger. Anger that he started at the smallest noises; anger that he couldn’t enjoy a simple, masturbatory fantasy without fear; anger that, above all else, he knew his paranoia was not unfounded.

 

_Sylar_.

 

As he bit his lip, Mohinder couldn’t help but wonder if there would ever be a time when he would be free of the murderer. Would he and Zane ever get a chance to explore each other’s bodies safe from the threat that seemed to constantly hang over their heads? With the road clear in front, Mohinder let himself look at Zane and really see him. Despite his size and the obvious strength in his arms, he seemed fragile and defenceless curled awkwardly in the seat. His hair was ruffled and falling forwards making him appear years younger. Mohinder’s coat was tucked under his chin like a child napping. Mohinder ached knowing that he had put this innocent man at risk.

 

_Sylar_.

 

The monster could be anywhere. It was true that they had hardly been alert on the way to Bozeman, prattling about genetics and joking together, but it still chilled Mohinder to the bone to think that with every passing mile they had been observed and followed. Even with the flat, open road ahead of them and the way behind them clear, Mohinder had still felt the spectre of Sylar breathing down his neck. It had seemed as if, had he turned around, he would find the man lounging in the seat behind him, laughing at their attempts to get away. It had taken all Mohinder’s inner strength and reason to resist the urge to shake Zane awake, and demand comfort and reassurance.

 

_Sylar_.

 

Mohinder’s stomach growled loudly and he knew he would have to wake Zane as soon as he spotted a diner. In the warmth of the new day it was easier to think about Sylar with rational, logical detachment. Unfortunately, rational, logical detachment provided no more solace than Mohinder’s wild imagination. He speculated, and hoped, that even with Sylar trailing them they were safe for now. The murderer may have followed them to Dale’s garage but he had yet to directly interfere with them. Events seemed to deny rationality – if Sylar wanted them to lead him to his victims, then why leave Dale’s corpse out, mangled and obscenely displayed? Mohinder didn’t know what to fear more: the crazed bloodlust of a madman or the prospect of a larger picture he couldn’t yet fathom.

 

Logic demanded they return to New York. They had to warn the others, and his father’s apartment was the nexus of information they needed. It could be their base to work from and a stronghold to barricade.

 

Logic demanded they run away. Sylar had known his father. He knew the apartment - had been in the apartment - to return to such familiar ground would be inviting disaster. Holed up in a remote town they could regroup, arm themselves, find allies, and mount an offence.

 

Logic demanded they fight. It was inconceivable to let Sylar pick off innocent people one by one; using the knowledge he had gained from Chandra against his victims. Mohinder wouldn’t let himself be tacitly implicated in any more deaths. Already Dale’s was one too many and Zane’s seemed like a horrific, unstoppable certainty.

 

Logic demanded they hide. Mohinder could feel his throat closing as despair pricked icily at his skin. What hope did they have against a killer whose motives he could not fathom? How could they expect to defeat someone who would hear their every step and could eavesdrop on all their plans? What defence could they muster – an academic and a musician – against a monster who killed without conscience? What right did he have to ask Zane to risk himself for Mohinder’s vengeance?

 

Logic dictated they had no choice. They would be destroyed if they split up. Gut wrenching as it was to accept, Zane would be picked off in an instant and Mohinder would shoulder the blame. He thought back to Zane’s desperate words as he clung to Mohinder and begged for relief from his fears. Maybe this _was_ the way things were meant to be. Perhaps a kernel of truth lay in Zane’s fanatical, child-like belief that they were connected by some greater force of the universe. Mohinder had never had much time before for blind faith in destiny but already Zane had challenged so much of Mohinder’s world view, simply by the virtue of his evolved existence.

 

_Sylar_.

 

Zane’s fingers tightened slightly on his thigh. Mohinder smiled, glad for the interruption from his morbid thoughts, and ran his hand absently through the other man’s hair. He chuckled at the drowsy way Zane trembled at the gentle touch. It was as if he hadn’t expected Mohinder to still be there when he woke up. He frowned, realising that Zane didn’t seem used to such simple and tender caresses. He wondered how much loneliness Zane had borne in the months before they had met, isolated and scared of his own power. He wondered how much loneliness Zane had borne in the years before his power had manifested, with nothing to recommend himself but a musician’s allure and a charming, endearing awkwardness.

 

Suddenly, Mohinder felt glad for the reckless way he had taken Zane into his mouth and pleasured him. It had been a stupid and impulsive thing to do and Mohinder had kept half his mind alert to the possibility that they would be attacked at their most vulnerable, all the while sliding his lips up and down Zane’s hardness. So close to death, there was no shame in giving Zane what he had thus far missed out on in life.

 

‘Morning,’ Zane mumbled. His voice was deep and croaky with sleep.

 

‘Good morning,’ Mohinder replied, his words almost drowned out by a loud, insistent rumble from his stomach. Zane laughed and Mohinder could feel his emotions being pulled and swayed as if he were on the upward swing of a pendulum. Zane’s laughter was filling the car and Mohinder laughed, too, overcome with giddiness at the rare chance to share in innocent, good-natured fun.

 

‘Hungry?’

 

‘Starving!’ Mohinder replied, nodding his head.

 

‘It’s your lucky day then,’ Zane said, pointing to the diner up ahead.

 

_Luck_. _Fate_. _Karma_. _Destiny_. Mohinder just smiled back at him.

 

***

 

Mohinder watched Zane over the top of his mug. His plate was piled high with waffles. Thick syrup was oozing down the stack and whipped cream was melting, slowly, into the warm crenulations of the dough. Zane was completely engrossed in his meal. His lips were slick with the sugary liquid and Mohinder found himself licking his own in sympathy. His meal of hard toast caught dryly in his throat. Mohinder pushed his plate away and Zane looked up at the scraping of the cheap ceramic against the Formica table top. He raised an eyebrow enquiringly at Mohinder between loaded forkfuls of the sticky, saccharine mess.

 

Mohinder shrugged. Between gulps of searing hot tea he explained, ‘I’m not hungry after all.’ _I’m envious._

 

It seemed petty to resent Zane for his simple, childish enjoyment in his food but it just seemed so _unfair_ that Zane could compartmentalise his mind like that; that he could separate out his basic needs and still derive pleasure from them without the reality of what was happening spilling over into it. As the hours ticked by, Mohinder found himself increasingly unsettled by Zane’s non-reaction to Dale’s death. He knew Zane’s arguments were sound: there _was_ nothing they could do for her now, they _did_ need to keep their strength up, now _wasn’t_ the time to grieve. But, as the tip of Zane’s tongue snuck out to lick a dab of cream and chocolate from his knife, Mohinder knew that neither was this the time for such self-indulgence. Did Zane really believe Dale was predestined to die so horribly? Did he really think fate absolved them of their part in her murder?

 

He started to feel queasy and excused himself to go to the men’s room. Mohinder needed a minute alone, away from Zane’s disturbingly piercing gaze. He splashed water on his face and told himself he was merely over tired. However, try as he might, he couldn’t quite convince himself he’d feel better after a quick nap. When he returned to the table, Zane was looking concerned. He’d paid the bill and his fork was set aside. The plate of half-eaten waffles had been abandoned. Syrup and cream and chocolate were splattered all over the remainder of the dish in an obscene way that caught Mohinder’s eye and made his stomach turn again.

 

They walked to the car in silence.

 

‘Mohinder…?’

 

Mohinder tried to ignore him but Zane spun him around, and pressed him up against the car door. His large, steady hands cupped Mohinder’s face and tilted his chin up, forcing Mohinder to look him in the eye.

 

‘What’s wro-’

 

Zane’s words were stifled by Mohinder’s lips as he tugged Zane’s head down and gently pressed their mouths together. He felt Zane give a small, confused sigh as Mohinder swept his tongue along his bottom lip and teased the sugar from the corners of his mouth. He nibbled at Zane, paying no attention to the other man’s whimpers as his lips grew red and swollen. Mohinder stole every last trace of chocolate from Zane’s skin. He slipped his tongue into his mouth and tried to capture all the sweetness for himself. He wanted to steal Zane’s secret. Mohinder wanted to be innocent and untroubled in the face of what they had seen but as his tongue twisted and slid against Zane’s own he knew he wouldn’t find what he needed like this.

 

He fell back against the car lethargically. He could feel the beginnings of a headache prickling at the back of his eyes. Zane regarded him critically with his head cocked to the side. Mohinder felt like he was being examined under a microscope as Zane tried to parse his mood. One of Zane’s hands was propped unconsciously at Mohinder’s hip and stopped him from slipping sideways, out from under his scrutiny and into the car.

 

‘Low blood sugar,’ Zane diagnosed, his head snapping upright and his hand sneaking into his back pocket. He pulled out a bright red bag of Skittles that Mohinder recognised as a small fraction of the mound of candy Zane had bought at the convenience store. He grinned at Mohinder as he plucked one of the small, colourful sweets from the bag and tossed it into his mouth with what must have been a practised hand. Mohinder tried to laugh – Zane was obviously trying to cheer him up – but the sound was hollow and false.

 

‘You need to eat more,’ Zane mumbled as he rolled the candy around on his tongue. He brought their lips together again and rubbed his thumb at the hinge of Mohinder’s jaw, easing his mouth open. Mohinder felt the Skittle enter his mouth followed by Zane’s sweeping tongue. He pulled back to watch Mohinder as he sucked on the candy. The sharp, sweet taste of it burst over his mouth and washed away the acrid remains of the tea and the faint under taste of Zane’s essence that had been lingering on Mohinder’s palate.

 

The candy gummed between his teeth as he chewed. It felt nauseating and cloying. Much like Zane’s actions, Mohinder thought spitefully. Why couldn’t Zane have just handed the bag to him or asked if he wanted one? Zane’s attempts at seduction and flirtation were adolescent, ham fisted, and entirely inappropriate. Mohinder twisted his body away and got into the car. From the corner of his eye he could see Zane’s smile fall a little as he rounded the front of the vehicle and joined Mohinder inside.

 

***

 

Mohinder slumped down onto the edge of the bed in the motel room. He rubbed his temple absently as Zane drew the curtains and shut out the midday sunlight. His headache was growing and his stomach was still churning uncomfortably. A bottle was shoved under his nose and he looked up to see Zane thrusting the half empty grape soda into his hands.

 

‘Thank you, Zane, but I don’t drink…’ Mohinder trailed off at Zane’s exasperated sigh. He gestured emphatically with the bottle, and under sufferance Mohinder took it from him. He grimaced and had a small swig of the bright purple fluid, smacking his lips to try and dislodge the sticky residue left behind. The soda seemed unusually cold after sitting in the heated car for so many hours and Mohinder recoiled from the sweetness and the chill against his teeth.

 

‘Finish it,’ Zane instructed as he tried to hand the bottle back. He must have frowned at the order because Zane sat beside him on the bed and rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed at his brusque manner. ‘It’s just… you have a headache, right?’ Mohinder nodded. ‘Feeling a bit queasy? Light headed? You’re definitely acting kind of cranky and tired. Look, your hands are shaking a little.’ Mohinder looked down and sure enough, the surface of the drink was swirling in the bottle from his quivering grip.

 

‘Low blood sugar.’ Zane repeated as Mohinder drained the rest of the soda. ‘You really don’t eat enough. I know you’re stressed out about… everything, but you do need to eat.’

 

Against all expectation Mohinder did start to feel better. He laid his head on Zane’s shoulder and breathed slowly, letting the sugar rush through his blood stream. He wrapped his arms around the other man’s torso and mumbled his thanks into Zane’s collar bone. Mohinder let his hand slip down and stole the bag of candy from Zane’s back pocket, pinching his ass lightly on the way and smiling when it made Zane buck forward against him.

 

‘So,’ he said, leaning back and smiling, ‘when in your music career did you get your medical licence?’ Mohinder shook some of the Skittles onto his palm. Selecting a lime green one he winked at Zane and tossed it in the air, trying to catch it in his mouth the effortless way Zane had done earlier. His aim was atrocious and the candy fell between them on the bedcovers. It was not as easy as Zane had made it look.

 

Zane shrugged. 'It’s not like that. I can just see how to fix things sometimes.’ He smiled as Mohinder missed his mouth again. This time an orange sweet hit his shoulder and ricocheted onto the floor, rolling under the bed. Zane groaned at his poor efforts and plucked the only red candy from Mohinder’s palm. It travelled through the air in an arc almost too perfect to believe and landed precisely on Zane’s tongue.

 

‘Show off,’ Mohinder grumbled before bringing his palm up and pouring the remaining Skittles into his mouth. The tangy fruit flavours mingled and collided on his taste buds. Mohinder sighed, knowing the taste would forever be associated with Zane and his childish enthusiasm. The other man was watching him closely again and Mohinder started to feel bad for the way he had been acting. _Acting kind of cranky_, in Zane’s words. It hadn’t been fair of him to take out his discomfort on Zane, nor to be rude to him when he was only trying to help. Mohinder wanted to kick himself for his stubbornness. After all, if he had just listened to Zane in the first place, he wouldn’t have felt so unwell and ill at ease in the car. Zane stood and moved uncomfortably around the small room.

 

‘You should get some rest.’

 

Now Mohinder felt like a complete ass. Zane only had his best interests at heart and Mohinder’s foul mood had succeeded in making the shy man even more awkward and tense. He reached out and grabbed Zane’s hand, holding him still and rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

 

‘Actually, I think I’ll take a shower first.’

 

‘Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll just…’ Zane waved a hand in the vague direction of the television, indicating he’d amuse himself. Mohinder couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped at Zane’s artlessness. It had been a while since Mohinder had needed to be quite so forward to get his point across.

 

‘Would you like to join me?’

 

Zane flushed at the implication and stumbled over his feet as Mohinder pulled them into the bathroom. Mohinder leaned against the small sink and held Zane close, kissing him slowly and letting his hands run over his body. Mohinder drank in the smell of Zane’s well worn t-shirt, still imbued with the musky scent of sweat and their previous liaisons. They stripped each other shyly. Their tender caresses and gentle movements seemed almost embarrassingly intimate after the hurried, needy sex they had been driven to before.

 

Zane drew back to fully appreciate Mohinder’s naked body. He dragged his eyes slowly over every inch of Mohinder’s form, from head to toe and back again. It was as if he were determined to store in his mind’s eye all the curves, planes and component parts that made up Mohinder. He blushed a little when their eyes met.

 

‘Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to look at you properly before.’

 

‘Don’t be sorry. I want you to look,’ Mohinder said as he smiled widely and arched his back. He tilted his hips forward invitingly and let his knees fall further apart, giving Zane an uninhibited view of his growing erection. Mohinder let his head drop back and exposed the long line of his neck and the hint of strong muscle in his shoulders. He was used to people admiring his body. Indeed, he had come to expect that his lovers would step back and stare at him in open mouthed awe. Mohinder didn’t mind. He wasn’t overly modest or ashamed of his sensuality. Mohinder knew he was attractive and now, in this context, he didn’t begrudge Zane the chance to ogle him.

 

He stared boldly back at Zane and muttered, ‘you’re gorgeous,’ in a low and husky voice. Zane shook his head and demurred but however aroused Zane was by the sight of Mohinder’s body, the feelings were amply returned. Even in the flickering fluorescent light of the bathroom, Zane looked divinely masculine. The sight of his broad shoulders and defined upper arms made Mohinder shiver with lust. His cock was hard and aching as he gazed at Zane’s torso, clenching his fists to stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers along the soft muscles of his stomach and through the thick trail of hair that begged to be caressed. Mohinder licked his lips to see Zane’s cock, strong and substantial like the rest of him, standing proud from his body. In the dark blackness of the car, Mohinder hadn’t had a chance to really see Zane’s erection. He had learned its shape and size by feel. He had used his tongue and lips and cheeks to seek out the most sensitive areas and immerse himself in Zane’s taste and texture. Seeing it now – the head flushed and tempting, his shaft rigid and pulsing and the base nestled in a thatch of inviting black curls – it took Mohinder’s breath away. He throbbed and swayed at the effort of denying his desire to sink to his knees and suck Zane deep into his mouth.

 

He moaned and grasped Zane’s hands in his own, pressing the other man’s palms to his torso. Zane took the hint and began to stroke his fingers over Mohinder’s body. He worked in large sweeping curves, running his hands with a feather-light caress from Mohinder’s navel, over his chest and along his shoulders. With a constant speed and pressure Zane rubbed down his arms and between his fingers, skipping to his hips and crouching before him to run his hands up and down his legs and between them. No inch of Mohinder’s skin went untouched. Zane was truly cataloguing all there was to him, and the way he sighed and twitched in response to the lavish attention.

 

Mohinder was quivering. His skin felt too tight, his body too hot and his nerves overwrought. Zane’s teasing touch was everywhere and indiscriminate in its affections. He spent as much time exploring Mohinder’s shins and elbows as he did his ass and thighs. Just when Mohinder thought he would crack, seconds before he caved and plunged his hands into Zane’s hair and thrust into his mouth, Zane leaned forward and pressed a wet, open kiss below his navel. His lips and tongue began to trace the same slow route his hands had taken. Mohinder cried out. It was too much: the epitome of exquisite torture. Goose pimples cascaded down his skin and he shivered as Zane chuckled at his cries. Zane stood and grazed a nipple with his teeth, rolling it with his tongue. Mohinder shivered more violently causing Zane to pull back to look at him again.

 

‘Are you cold?’ he asked softly, cradling Mohinder’s chin in his palm. He nodded mutely as he became aware of the chill of the porcelain sink in the small of his back and the slight draught in the poorly insulated room. Zane rubbed his arm briskly to warm his skin and leaned over the bathtub to turn on the shower head. With a twist of the hot tap, the pipes began to rumble and the high pitched screech of protesting metal filled the bathroom.

 

‘_Shit_!’ Zane cried. He doubled over and covered his ears against the wailing pipes. After a moment’s shocked immobility, Mohinder scrambled with the taps. He adjusted the flow and temperature of the water and soon the pipes quieted to a low, almost inaudible grumble. Zane was perched on the side of the tub cradling his head in his hands. His face was pinched in pain and his cock hung limply between his legs. All signs of his arousal had been driven out by the pain.

 

Mohinder rubbed circles into the small of Zane’s back and dropped soft kisses to his tense shoulders. He tried to ignore his own erection, unaffected by the noise, as it throbbed and pulsed demanding his attention. After a few moments Zane raised his head and nuzzled his face against Mohinder’s, whining a little as their stubble scraped together and muttering apologies low in his throat. Mohinder shook his head kindly. He stroked the nape of Zane’s neck and mouthed along his jaw.

 

‘You should have told me you had another migraine,’ Mohinder whispered. 'I’m sorry I didn’t notice.’

 

Zane stared at him with a curious expression that reminded Mohinder of their first meeting, the moment Zane had opened his front door. The time when all Mohinder had known about him was his frantic voice on the answering machine felt like it belonged to another era. He recalled how Zane had been nothing like the man he had pictured in his imagination. He was tall and broad where Mohinder had expected weak and unappealing. Zane had been excited and enthusiastic where Mohinder had imagined him timid and fearful. ‘An epiphany’, he had explained. Now, the look on Zane’s face brought back to Mohinder the sense of apprehension he had felt at Zane’s sudden, and exuberant, change of heart. Zane shrugged in his self deprecating manner and gave his small, shy smile. Mohinder could feel the doubts and anxiety that had been stoked for no real reason ebb and cease in the face of the other man’s unconscious charm.

 

‘I was more worried about you,’ Zane explained. He winced and massaged his temple. Mohinder felt like a terrible friend and an even worse lover. He tugged Zane up by the shoulders and stood them under the soothing spray of the shower, hoping the warm, steady beat of the water would assuage his pain. For a second Zane whimpered and gritted his teeth. Mohinder wondered if he would prefer to just lie down and shield his eyes from the light but then his body relaxed and he rested against Mohinder’s chest.

 

He soothingly massaged shampoo from the small complimentary bottle into Zane’s scalp, and worked up a thick lather. Zane sighed as Mohinder rinsed his hair and brushed it back with his fingers but Mohinder couldn’t tell if it was a sound of pleasure or pain. He ran slick, soapy hands reassuringly over Zane’s skin. Mohinder worked to loosen the knots in his back and smiled when Zane leaned back into the water with a contented moan and let Mohinder have access to his chest. Mohinder’s cock, which had abated somewhat while he fretted over Zane, began to grow harder again and thrum hotly as he teased Zane’s nipples with his thumbs.

 

Mohinder’s hands skid lower and he crouched before Zane. He ignored the cold ceramic under his knees and the water sheeting over him from the shower head. Slowly, Mohinder rubbed the soap into the skin of Zane’s thighs. His fingers toyed with the dark hairs there and he eased Zane’s legs further apart. He dipped his head and planted tender, wet kisses down Zane’s flaccid shaft, smiling at the quiet appreciative, groan that tumbled from Zane’s lips.

 

Mohinder kneaded Zane’s ass with strong, persistent fingers as his mouth played along his soft dick. He licked a long, gentle stripe up and down his length before tickling the head with the tip of his tongue. Mohinder nudged him with the end of his nose and rubbed the soft, damp skin above his cheekbone against him. Despite the satisfied noises Zane was making above him, he did not start to stiffen or lengthen. Mohinder slipped the head of Zane’s cock into his warm mouth and suckled on him with an impatient hum. He swirled his tongue gently around the sensitive ridge and used his skilled touch to try and tease out an erection.

 

Zane rested a hand on Mohinder’s shoulder and began to squeeze the base of his neck with a groan. When his oral attentions failed to have any effect, Mohinder pressed one final kiss to the tip of Zane’s limp dick and moved his lips lower. He licked and nuzzled at Zane’s balls. He opened his mouth wide and took one in, sucking gently and letting his fingers trail up and down Zane’s cock and through the sodden mass of curls at his base.

 

With a small, unhappy noise, Zane pushed him back and away. Mohinder looked up, squinting in the spray of the water and saw Zane looking down on him with an embarrassed and ashamed look. He opened his mouth to speak and but Mohinder cut off his apology before he had a chance to voice it.

 

‘It’s ok, Zane. It doesn’t matter.’

 

Zane nudged Mohinder backwards so that his back was resting against the slope of the tub and kneeled between his legs. It was a cramped, tight fit, and Mohinder felt gratuitously displayed and exposed when Zane lifted his legs to rest on the sides of the bath. His head fell back with a cry as Zane wrapped a hand around his erection with his firm, confident grip. Mohinder bucked into his fist. The spray from the shower was pounding onto his chest and the water washed over his belly and pooled in the hollow between his legs. The sensations were intense and all encompassing: the heat from the water, the heat of Zane’s body and the slick, slippery slide of his palm against Mohinder’s tight, quivering skin.

 

Zane was leaning over his body, bracing himself with a forearm against the tiles above Mohinder’s head. Their breath was coming in shallow pants. The steam from the shower swirled around and between them. Mohinder wondered if he should tell Zane to stop, putting off his release until they could manage something more reciprocal, but Zane’s thumb was skating over the tip of his cock and he had to bite his lip at the mounting heat in his groin. He didn’t have the self-control to delay his pleasure.

 

‘I’m gonna blow you, ok?’

 

Zane’s voice rumbled low and erotic in his ear. Mohinder grunted his assent as Zane’s words were accompanied by a quick twist of his wrist. Zane pumped his dick one final time then let his hand rest loosely around his base, holding him steady. His tongue darted out tentatively to play along his glossy tip and delve into the slit. Mohinder stroked Zane’s face and tried to ease the man’s frown and squint of concentration as he contemplated the hardness in front of him. Zane licked and kissed teasingly down his length and between his fingers, echoing Mohinder’s earlier actions in the car.

 

It was selfish but Mohinder needed Zane to work quicker. He was too close to the edge. He felt as if he had been hanging on the brink for hours and he needed Zane to get him off or he would be forced to take himself in hand. With only a small twinge of guilt that he was pushing Zane further and faster than he wanted to go, he covered Zane’s hand in his own and pressed his fingers into a tight circle once more. Mohinder rolled his hips, letting the head of his cock rock against Zane’s chin. Zane looked up at him and acquiesced. He parted his lips to let Mohinder slide inside against his tongue.

 

‘Oh god, Zane. That’s good, you’re so good.’

 

Mohinder guided Zane’s hand up and down his shaft at a quick pace as Zane hollowed his cheeks and sucked on the tip. Mohinder slid his other hand down to his chest and took his own nipple between his fingers. Rolling, pulling and twisting, the waves of pleasure were crashing inside him faster and faster. Mohinder bucked his hips. Zane gagged and pulled back with a splutter but Mohinder was too close to stop and soothe him. With a final tug, he took his hand from his chest and tangled his fingers into Zane’s wet hair. He pulled him down forcefully, letting their mouths crash together in a clatter of teeth and lips and tongues. He squeezed his hand tighter around Zane’s. They moved quicker still, Mohinder thrusting into their fists as they jacked him until his body seized and he came. Mohinder’s hand fell lifelessly to the cool porcelain. Zane continued to caress him, smoothing his semen back over him until Mohinder stilled him and pulled his hand away.

 

They kissed lazily under the cooling spray. Mohinder brought his knees up to his chest and flexed his muscles to ease the cramps in his legs. Mohinder watched the water wash his come from Zane’s stomach and hands. Zane reached down to help Mohinder up, but Mohinder’s legs were still unsteady and he pitched forward, slipping on the slick ceramic tub. With phenomenal speed, Zane had him righted and steadied. Mohinder’s heart was pounding at the near miss and he rested his head against Zane’s chest, smiling as his chest hair tickled his nose. He dragged his fingers along Zane’s biceps and realised the man must be even stronger than he looked because it felt as if Mohinder’s entire body had been lifted for a moment as Zane kept him from falling.

 

Mohinder let the lukewarm water rinse him clean. He reached between them to cup Zane’s cock and balls for a second attempt at getting him hard, but Zane turned away and switched off the water.

 

‘Don’t,’ was all he said as Mohinder licked his lips and glanced at Zane’s flaccid dick.

 

‘Really, Zane. It’s –’

 

‘Don’t.’ Zane’s voice had a warning edge to it now and Mohinder curled his arms around him. He held Zane in a close embrace until he felt the other man relax and return the hug.

 

‘Thank you,’ Mohinder whispered. Zane stroked his hair and then moved them out of the shower as they began to shiver. Working quickly Mohinder rubbed them dry with the cheap motel towels and then guided Zane into the sheets, slipping in beside him and ignoring his protests that they were still nude. With his head on Zane’s shoulder, Mohinder gave in to his weariness and drifted off to sleep, still tasting the candied sweetness of Zane on his tongue.

 


	5. Light

The ice encasing Sylar’s hand cracked and shattered as he flexed his fingers. He caught the falling shards with his mind before they fell to the bed and floated them to the bathroom sink. He ignored Mohinder’s shivers against his side at the sudden chill in the room. Sylar clenched and opened his fist repeatedly, building up layer upon layer of thick blue frost. When he drew his fingers apart he let jagged, icy bridges leap between his digits, only to smile as they splintered when he snapped his fist shut once more.

 

Wisps of ice crystallised on the back of his neck, weaving between his hair follicles to cool his scalp and ease the dull, aching throb in his head. Intuitively he knew how to stop pain, which was now nothing more than a minor annoyance and an aggravating reminder that he had yet to obtain the power of regeneration. He gritted his teeth at the memory of Bennet. The ice careened down his forearm as he imagined torturing the man as he had been tortured. Sylar looked forward to pinning Bennet to a wall while he sliced open his precious daughter’s skull. Sylar would hold Bennet’s eyes open and telekinetically refuse to let him look away.

 

He knew he would laugh as Bennet’s screams rang in his ears. He would pause, long enough for Bennet to realise and regret that the fault for her tortured death lay in his own actions. There would be nothing quick and merciful about it. Vengeance would be his and the Company would never have cause to underestimate Sylar again. The man would sob and rail futilely against his bonds while Sylar stood immortal before him. He would smile as he smeared Bennet’s chin with his daughter’s cooling blood and then snap his neck with a sharp turn of the wrist. Survival of the fittest: it was his evolutionary prerogative.

 

Mohinder shifted restlessly at his side, shaking Sylar out of his angry reverie. Instead of pulling back from the cold that disturbed his sleep, Mohinder’s arm clutched tighter around Sylar’s torso and his face nuzzled deeper into his chest. Mohinder’s knee had fallen between Sylar’s legs, wedging his thigh between both of Sylar’s own and pushing his sharp hipbone into the soft flesh of Sylar’s groin. From shoulders to hips, Mohinder’s taut body was lying half on him, pressing Sylar into the soft mattress.

 

The lion and the lamb had lain down together. He tugged at the blankets with his mind and wrapped them tighter around Mohinder’s body. Sylar allowed the ice to dissipate from his skin. He let his hand rest on Mohinder’s ass, pulling him closer and holding him still. He licked his lips as he watched Mohinder sleep. With every breath, Mohinder’s ribcage expanded, pressing his sternum into Sylar’s side. With every breath, Mohinder whimpered at the pressure on the angry, red bruise that marked his chest. With every whimper, Mohinder’s hand clenched slightly against Sylar’s skin, rubbing the rough scabs on his palm to Sylar’s chest. Mohinder’s body was a testament to his human frailty.

 

And yet, even in all his flawed weakness and naïve unwavering trust, Mohinder understood. Mohinder knew what it was to be lonely and seeking purpose. Hadn’t Mohinder, too, been rejected by Chandra? Sylar shook his head at his own naivety, scarcely able to believe he had ever looked to Mohinder’s father for answers. That was before his evolution, though, and Chandra had been all he had deserved. Now, fate had provided him with a worthier companion.

 

As the hours passed, Mohinder held him closer. With every mile that brought them closer to the city, Mohinder’s hands had reached more frequently for his. Sylar pressed soft kisses to Mohinder’s eyelids and inhaled the scent of his skin and his hair. His fingers trailed aimlessly along Mohinder’s clavicle as he contemplated what awaited them in New York. He recalled the small, dingy apartment with its broad table and Chandra’s cluttered desk. He pictured in his mind the web of elusive names that graced the map. Just one glance and they would be forever locked in his eidetic memory. Sylar wasn’t sure yet what he would do when they arrived and the list was finally within his grasp. How long would he bury himself beneath the mask of Zane, possessing both the powers he desired and Mohinder’s adulation? How many days would they spend at the table, sipping tea and ‘helping’ others, Sylar sitting in Gabriel’s seat and Mohinder in his father’s? How many nights would Mohinder spend with Zane’s name on his lips and Sylar’s lips on his cock? Even now, with Mohinder’s weight settled solidly onto his body, fully reaping the benefits of being Zane, Sylar knew that wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t their destiny.

 

Sylar didn’t want to hide himself away. Already it rankled to suppress his abilities and this constant charade was wearing thin. Sylar knew that in New York things would be forced to come to a head. He had swathed himself in Gabriel for too many years, hiding from his potential for his mother’s approval, to stand behind Zane for Mohinder’s esteem. Like Chandra before him, Mohinder would be tried. He would walk through the valley of the shadow of death and Sylar hoped that Mohinder would fare better than his father. For Sylar’s was the path of righteousness and the natural progression of the species. Despite the churning in his gut at the prospect, he knew that if Mohinder ultimately strayed and faltered his punishment would be meted out at Sylar’s hand.

 

He would not let Mohinder play Delilah to his Samson. Sylar would not be seduced and betrayed, stripped of his powers pining for a shameless whore. With a telekinetic hand, he shoved the blanket from Mohinder’s shoulders to bunch around his hips. Cocking his head, he stared at Mohinder’s body and contemplated the sleeping man. Mohinder was physically attractive, of that there was no question, but it had seemed almost beside the point when moans were spilling from his lips and he was thrusting against Sylar’s palm. Sylar wanted to own him and his reactions. He wanted to make Mohinder feel unbridled ecstasy in both mind and body. Then, when the illusion finally lifted and the smoke cleared, he wanted Mohinder to understand that only at Sylar’s feet could such feelings be replicated and exceeded.

 

Sex for pleasure’s sake was nothing to Sylar. Mindless physicality had never appealed to him, but now, with Mohinder, sex was more than arousal and climax. He remembered, vividly, the look of fear and desperation on Mohinder’s face as he pulled Sylar to him, his bloodied hand fisting in Zane’s shirt. He could feel again Mohinder’s panicked breaths against his lips as he pressed their mouths together insistently. In his mind’s ear, the rapid beat of Mohinder’s pulse echoed once more. It had been a pulse of despair, lust and need. Sex, then, had been a manipulation and an exploitation. He had wanted to calm Mohinder, and keep them moving, all the quicker to reach New York.

 

Somewhere between the fumbling of their hands and the slide of their tongues, Sylar had seen the cogs slide into place. Mohinder was his to keep. He was a challenge and entertainment. He stimulated Sylar intellectually and physically, never leaving him bored and uninterested. He was wholly removed from Sylar’s own significance and yet utterly unique in his own way. Mohinder was a prize second only to Sylar’s abilities. His, if only Mohinder could break beyond the constraints of humanity and his misplaced desire for vengeance. Could Mohinder evolve beyond what Chandra had been?

 

Sylar let his head fall back against the pillows, exhaling a sigh. He shifted against the sheets and Mohinder squirmed in time. Even asleep he followed Sylar’s every move, keeping him alert. He thought of Mohinder, on his knees in awe, his body contorted in the car for Sylar’s pleasure. Soon, Mohinder would know the depth of the worship Sylar was due. He cooled his hand again until the slightest of chills emanated from his skin and swept his fingers soothingly over the growing bruise on Mohinder’s chest. The pad of his thumb left icy tendrils to mitigate the sore and swelling skin.

 

Enhanced hearing confirmed that Mohinder remained deeply asleep, but still Sylar wondered what Mohinder would do if he woke. Perhaps he would finally see the truth that had been before him all along, but Sylar thought it unlikely. Hadn’t Mohinder just been faced with irrefutable evidence of Sylar’s identity, and hadn’t he simply chosen to see what he wished to see? Innocent, harmless Zane, a victim of migraines. As Sylar watched, goose pimples formed on Mohinder’s body. His nipples pulled up, tight and erect. He let his fingertips glide over Mohinder’s chest and with the lightest of touches, brushed the hard, pebbled flesh.

 

Sylar tried to bury his frustration at his own physical weakness. This newest ability was not like liquefaction, mastered in a matter of minutes, or telekinesis, now functioning as an extension of his thoughts. It had limitations Sylar had not anticipated. The screeching of the pipes had caught him off guard. The pain had been piercing, doubling him over and leaving him vulnerable. Incapable. Sylar’s fingers dug into the skin of Mohinder’s ass. A burning heat of shame was stoked in his belly. Never again would his body betray him. Never again would Mohinder look at him with such pity and condescension. He was Sylar and he had complete control. If he could survive the Company, he could certainly master his own body.

 

With a single telekinetic burst, he pushed the blanket down further to the foot of the bed. In the darkened room, they lay exposed with their legs entwined. Mohinder nuzzled his face against Sylar’s chest. Mohinder’s hair, still slightly damp, tickled and teased at his skin. He pushed aside the disgust that mounted when he wondered if Mohinder could really find _Zane_ special. He thought of Chandra and his unbridled glee when Sylar swept a teacup across the table. Chandra had been impressed at the most paltry of parlour tricks and yet repulsed by Sylar’s true potential. He shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. No, he reasoned, Mohinder was different. Mohinder could read Sylar’s meaning beneath Zane’s words. Why else would he be so eager to fall to his knees in adoration? Why else would Sylar let him? Their connection was absolute.

 

Soon, Sylar would destroy the Zane he had created as surely as the Zane he had killed. But for now, _Zane_ was a tool to be utilised. Sylar decided they would spend the night in the motel. He would have one more night as Zane, one more night before further evolution and one more night with Mohinder’s unwavering devotion. If he could keep Mohinder in this delicate equilibrium, scared but ignorant of the true danger, then maybe he could finally unlock how Mohinder worked. Sylar wanted to fix him, to restore Mohinder’s soul, pull together the fragments scattered by his father’s rejection and death, scattered by his fear. Mohinder could be made to understand the imperative behind what Sylar had done. When Sylar had mended all the broken parts of Mohinder’s mind, then their destiny would be fulfilled.

 

Sylar felt a familiar tug in his groin at the thought. He angled his head to look down his body and watch himself stiffen, moaning as his cock brushed against Mohinder’s soft thigh. He trailed the backs of his fingers down Mohinder’s cheek, and traced his thumb lightly down his jaw. For a moment Sylar contemplated waking him, to encourage Mohinder to continue what he had started in the shower, but when Mohinder started to stir under his caresses, he pulled his hand away. Sylar didn’t want to hear Zane’s name right now.

 

He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked two in, wetting the tips with a sweeping tongue. Holding Mohinder’s ass tighter, Sylar dragged his fingers in a damp trail down his own jaw and neck to circle a nipple. He watched Mohinder’s sleeping face as he rubbed his flesh until it was hard and sensitive to the touch. Sylar’s eyes fluttered shut and he let his fingers fall away to rest against the sheets. He rolled his hips. Sylar focused on the image of Mohinder’s lips: Mohinder kissing him in the shower, Mohinder mouthing his neck as they fell into bed, Mohinder sucking on his nipples in the car.

 

‘_Mohinder_,’ he whispered as he conjured telekinetic lips to suckle and pull at his chest. From his eidetic memory he replayed Mohinder’s deep, desperate groans in perfect pitch and cadence. Sylar’s palm slapped against the mattress as his dick grew harder, his hips moving faster against Mohinder’s leg. The imaginary lips moved upwards, following the moist path drawn on Sylar’s skin. They stopped to bite and nip at his jaw and under his ear. Telekinetic fingers were fondling his torso. They carded through his chest hair and tugged. With a thought, nails were raking down his sides as palms and thumbs kneaded his muscles.

 

Telekinetic kisses were planted along his collarbone. Sylar chewed on his lip to stop from crying out as firm hands were pressing between his thighs. He was stroking Mohinder’s skin, feeling him shift as Sylar writhed against him, and with his free hand he brushed Mohinder’s curls from his forehead. He visualised looking into the depths behind Mohinder’s closed eyes. He fantasised that when Mohinder gazed back he could see Sylar, not Zane, in all his glory. Pressure was wrapping around his cock. An invisible hand the size and shape of Mohinder’s started working him firmly.

 

‘Mohinder. Oh, shit. Mohinder,’ he muttered, unable to keep from babbling the curses or the name. With a furrowed brow Sylar replayed their conversations in his memory, skipping and searching for the words he wanted to hear.

 

_Sylar_.

 

He groaned. Mohinder’s voice, deep and cultured, rumbled in his ear. Over and over again on a constant reel he heard Mohinder speak his name, thrilling at the way he whispered it in fear. The telekinetic grip was pulling tighter and jacking faster. Sylar’s hips rocked upwards into the empty air and he grunted not to feel Mohinder’s weight pressing over him or his hot breath against his skin. Sylar tried to imagine Mohinder crying his name in ecstasy so that he could come but all he could hear was Zane. _Zane_. _Zane_. _Zane_.

 

Sylar nearly spat in frustration. The telekinetic forces vanished from his body and he opened his eyes wide, shaking his head to clear the fantasy from his mind. His dick was full and heavy, pulsing against his thigh. Breathing deeply he tried to will away his arousal but to no avail. Sylar cracked his neck and with a grunt of dissatisfaction held up his open palm. The lubricant flew across the room from where they had dumped the pile of groceries. It hit his hand with a small smacking sound. He held the tube for a moment, squeezing tightly and considering, before flicking it open with a resigned sigh.

 

As he up-ended the tube with his mind, his other hand still kneading Mohinder’s ass, he summoned the condoms to sit beside the bed for later. He grasped his cock in his now slick palm and slowly spread the wetness along his length. Sylar tried to push away the lingering sense of guilt that always arose when he took himself in hand. He told himself he was not to blame. Mohinder did this to him. Mohinder made him feel like this; he knocked him off kilter and left him questioning. Sylar _would_ figure out what made Mohinder tick.

 

His hand moved faster and his hips bucked up. He caught himself before his eyes fell shut once more. Instead, he turned to Mohinder in the deepening darkness of the evening and focused on what was before him, refusing to fantasise about a destiny that might yet not come to pass. Heat was mounting in his groin. Mohinder’s name was on his tongue. It wasn’t as good as feeling Mohinder over him and around him, but it would do. It was better than hearing the wrong name panted against his neck.

 

Sylar buried his face in Mohinder’s hair, inhaling his scent and pressing kisses to his scalp. His arm clutched tighter. He held Mohinder closer still. All Sylar could hear was the pound of his own arousal. With a thought he thrust the curtains open to let the sun stream in and drive the shadows from Mohinder’s sleeping form.

 

‘Sylar!’ Mohinder suddenly cried out. Sylar’s heart skipped a beat. Mohinder was struggling at his side, trying to pull away from his body. His pulse was racing and Sylar’s own was beating at a pace that matched his panicked thrum. He flipped over and pinned Mohinder to the bed with his mind. His hands followed seconds later to hold down his thrashing limbs. Mohinder clawed at his shoulders and sought to push him away, but Sylar held firm and pressed their lips together. Mohinder bit savagely at his mouth. Blood spilled. Sylar drew back and with a sickening twist of his gut, prepared to kill. [](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	6. Share

Mohinder’s eyes opened slowly in the darkened room. The sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed and he was still wrapped around Zane in the position they had fallen asleep in. He felt too lazy and comfortable to move just yet. Zane’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He could hear him breathing heavily, and as the sleep cleared from Mohinder’s vision, he realised the other man was touching himself. He had to bite back a moan at the unexpected, but nonetheless welcome sight. The thumb of Zane’s free hand was lightly stroking the small of Mohinder’s back. The pressure held Mohinder in position, letting Zane’s hips brush past Mohinder’s growing erection with every ragged thrust into his fist. The combination of irregular and teasing bursts of friction and the erotic sight of Zane playing with his own dick prompted Mohinder to roll his hips a little, too.

 

Zane was muttering Mohinder’s name over and over again under his breath as his hand moved faster. Mohinder thought that maybe he should find the situation indecent or unnerving, but it was actually one of the most arousing things he had ever experienced. It was vulgar and voyeuristic to watch Zane without his knowledge but Mohinder was too turned on to care. He had always loved observing his partners – both men and women – like this. Mohinder loved the intimacy of seeing how their fingers moved when there was no one to pleasure but themselves. He loved to see how surely and confidently they rubbed at their own bodies, a lifetime’s knowledge leading the way to a quick and dirty orgasm.

 

Zane was crying out softly, inhibited only to the extent that he not wake Mohinder. He looked rawly carnal, and watching him, Mohinder could feel the beginning heat of his own erection unfurling in his groin. He ached to reach out, twine his fingers with Zane’s and let their hands work his cock together. Zane looked impossibly hard and Mohinder wanted desperately to feel him pulse and writhe as he came. Pre-come was dripping liberally from both of them now. Mohinder licked his lips, remembering the exhilarating contrast between the sweet taste of Zane’s mouth, always tinged with the candy he liked so much, and the salty, bitter taste of his come. Mohinder closed his eyes to try and regain control of his senses, but the room was filled with the slick sound of Zane’s palm.  

 

Zane’s cock was glossy and wet. He supposed Zane must have, somehow, snatched the tube of lubricant from where he’d left it on the bureau across the room. The extravagant indulgence of it all was almost too much for Mohinder to bear. Only the memory of Zane’s earlier embarrassment stopped him from reaching down and grasping his own dick. He knew Zane was probably feeling ashamed and insecure about his inability to get hard in the shower. He was wary of making things worse if being caught in the midst of pleasuring himself caused Zane to lose his erection again. Mohinder recalled the sharp ‘_don’t’_ when he fondled him earlier. He felt guilty for having been too concerned with his own orgasm to properly reassure Zane. With constant fear and mortal dread hanging over them, Mohinder would be grateful if stress-induced migraines were the worst Zane suffered from. However, Zane’s relative inexperience was evident. He feared Zane might make more of two lost erections in a row than needed to be made.

 

Mohinder contented himself with sleepily cuddling closer to Zane’s body. He tilted his hips against Zane’s and sighed softly at the increased friction against the length of his dick. The arm around him tightened. Zane curled closer to him and pressed his nose into Mohinder’s hair. He breathed his scent in deeply, whimpering brokenly into Mohinder’s curls.

 

There was a sudden screech of metal on metal. Mohinder’s eyes snapped open and he was momentarily blinded by the burning, bright sunlight as the curtains flung open of their own accord.

 

_Sylar_.

 

‘Sylar!’ Mohinder cried as he tried to sit up. His limbs were trembling with adrenaline. His mind was racing and his eyes searched the room for escape routes and weapons. Then, he was pinned to the bed. Zane’s weight was holding him down and Mohinder lacked the strength or leverage to flip them over. He pounded his fists against Zane’s shoulders and desperately tried to warn him that they must be being observed.

 

_Sylar_.

 

Zane’s mouth was over his. His tongue was forcing its way into Mohinder’s mouth and he felt choked. Panic was rising in his gut. Mohinder bit down sharply on Zane’s lip, not caring when he felt skin rip and blood burst across his palate. He could apologise later. Now, they needed to get away.

 

_Sylar_.

 

‘Shh! Shh! Mohinder, it’s ok!’ Zane’s bloody lips were pressed to his ear. His hands were rubbing over Mohinder’s chest in the same soothing strokes he had used the morning Dale had died. Could that really have only been yesterday? Where the warm press of Zane’s body had comforted him then, it now felt like a trap.

 

_Sylar_.

 

Zane was whispering platitudes into his skin. The panicked sweat was cooling on Mohinder’s face and chest. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. There was no attack. There were no screams. There was no sudden spill of blood. Cautiously, Mohinder let himself slump back into the bed. His gaze continued to roam around the room, but everything remained as it should. He focused on the curtains. They stayed open but resolutely still.

 

‘Mohinder?’ Now that he had stopped struggling, Zane pulled back to look at him. His brow was furrowed with concern and his hands rested gently on Mohinder’s biceps to stop him from bolting away. ‘It’s ok. You’re awake now. I think you were having a nightmare.’

 

‘Nightmare?’ Mohinder asked incredulously. Zane bit at his lip as Mohinder continued to stare at the curtains. He didn’t know what had happened but he knew he had been awake when it had. His mind scrambled to try and make sense of the situation. ‘The curtains…?’ he asked slowly.

 

Zane cocked his head to the side as he looked down on Mohinder with one of his inscrutable expressions. ‘What about them?’ Zane asked in a low and gentle voice. He spoke as if he thought Mohinder might be becoming unhinged.

 

‘They’re open. I mean, they opened. On their own…’ Mohinder trailed off. Even to himself he sounded crazy. Zane was shaking his head slowly, chewing on his bottom lip.

 

‘They were always open, Mohinder. I left them open.’ Mohinder blinked. That couldn’t be right, could it? He thought he remembered Zane closing the curtains when they entered the room, but he had felt so ill and then so horny, he had no clear memory of the details.

 

‘But the light?’ Mohinder protested weakly.

 

‘The sun came out from behind a cloud.’ Zane was staring at him fixedly. It was unnerving and made Mohinder begin to doubt he had seen anything at all. As always, Zane’s words made sense but Mohinder was left feeling unsettled in the back of his mind. His hands still trembled and his gut still cramped. He wasn’t imagining that.

 

‘There was a noise…’

 

Zane blushed and averted his eyes from Mohinder’s as he pressed a kiss to his cheek. Mohinder recoiled from the smell of blood on his lips. Zane swiped the back of his hand across his chin but only spread the red, wet stickiness more than he wiped it away.

 

_Sylar_.

 

‘I was…’ Zane struggled to find the words as he flushed a deeper shade of pink. ‘Y’know…’ His hand jerked up and down in an obscene gesture. ‘Masturbating. I’m sorry.’

 

Mohinder’s hands cradled Zane’s head automatically. He pulled the man down for a sloppy, reassuring kiss without any conscious thought behind his actions. Mohinder wasn’t sure if he was trying to soothe Zane for the shame he heard in his voice, or trying to comfort himself for the bewilderment he was feeling. Zane was kissing him and his body and lips responded instinctively as his mind tried to fit the pieces together. He had watched Zane touch himself. He had listened to Zane touch himself. The noise he had heard had not been the sound of Zane’s cries or the sounds of skin on skin.

 

_Sylar_.

 

He pushed Zane up and away, ignoring his grunt of confusion, and tried to explain. ‘No, that wasn’t it. What I heard…’ What had he heard? The screech of metal curtain rings against the metal curtain pole… but Zane had already explained the curtains had always been open. Had he imagined it all? Zane’s words roused him from his thoughts once more.




 

‘It was just a dream. Or a nightmare, I guess. Mohinder, you’re panicking again. Nothing happened.’

 

Mohinder nodded. He thought back to his fear in the car and the way he jumped at the most ordinary things – the crackling of radio static and shadows in the backseat. He was terrified and overtired; stressed, hunted and worried about Zane. Mohinder hadn’t eaten properly in two days. It made sense that his body was revolting against him and his mind playing tricks. Still, Mohinder couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Something was very, very wrong. It was pulling and prodding at the back of his mind and Mohinder tried desperately to find the key that explained why he felt so ill at ease.

 

Zane lay over him, their positions from earlier reversed. Mohinder absently ran his fingers through Zane’s hair while the other man calmly stroked his arms. Zane dipped his head and started pressing damp kisses to Mohinder’s neck. Their hips were rocking together, but the easy, familiar warmth in Mohinder’s belly wasn’t as comforting or distracting as usual. He willed himself to focus on the hardness riding against his thigh but his mind was in chaos and he couldn’t rid himself of his sense of apprehension. He turned his head to ask Zane to stop. He wasn’t in the mood to be physically consoled but as he opened his mouth to speak, Zane slipped his fingers between his lips and whispered urgently in his ear.

 

‘It’s going to be ok, Mohinder. Everything is going to be fine.’ Zane pulled back and looked down on him, his hand still preventing Mohinder from speaking. He drew in a quaking breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he met Mohinder’s gaze again, his eyes were wide and wet and he looked as confused as Mohinder felt. ‘Tell me you think it’s going to be ok, Mohinder. Oh, God. What are we doing? We have to warn the others. We have to save them, but what chance do _we_ have against someone so…? Against _him_?’

 

_Sylar_.

 

Zane fell forward and pressed his face into the crook of Mohinder’s neck. His fingers fell limply from Mohinder’s mouth and trailed wetly down his chin and neck. Instinctively, Mohinder held him close, soothingly rubbing his back. Zane’s fear sounded genuine but there was something else in his voice, an undercurrent Mohinder couldn’t quite identify – awe or fascination perhaps? Mohinder quieted him. Charles Manson, Myra Hindley, Ted Bundy: Mohinder reminded himself that serial killers enthralled humanity because they were so removed from the norm. Zane’s tone really shouldn’t have surprised him or felt so off-putting. Yet, as understandable as Zane’s concerns were, Mohinder couldn’t help but feel his fear was calculated. There was a manipulative side to Zane that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Even if Zane was doing this with the best intentions -- to give Mohinder someone else to care for and stay strong for -- it was too controlling for Mohinder’s liking. He realised that he had been relying completely on someone he hardly knew.

 

_Zane_.

 

Mohinder pulled Zane up by his shoulders and smiled at him. He hoped it didn’t seem as weak and forced as it felt. ‘Everything _is_ going to be ok, Zane. Let’s just get up and keep driving. If we go through the night, we can reach New York by midday.’ For the first time the thought of having Zane with him through this ordeal wasn’t a source of hope. There was something more to his disquiet than the ever-present fear that he wouldn’t be able to keep Zane safe. Something about Zane himself was putting Mohinder’s nerves on edge. For a moment, Mohinder selfishly wished that Zane would cry off, disclaim all responsibility as Mohinder’s alone and run back to Virginia Beach. Even then, Mohinder knew, their connection would not be severed.

 

_Destiny brought us together like this. _

 

Zane’s desperate words jumped across his memory. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on getting them moving again. He started to sit up but Zane pushed him back into the sheets and crashed their mouths together. Zane’s hands were everywhere: pawing, fondling, groping. The weight of his body was oppressive. Mohinder’s mouth was filled with the taste of blood and candy and Zane’s tongue. Mohinder writhed to get away. Zane was pinning him down and panting in his ear. ‘_Please_, Mohinder. Please.’

 

He didn’t know what Zane was pleading for. He couldn’t give Zane the security and peace of mind that he needed and he didn’t think he wanted to give Zane the solace and gratification that he desired. Mohinder struggled underneath him. He opened his mouth to protest, but Zane’s insistent whimpers cut him off.  

 

‘Mohinder, please, I’m scared. Sylar kills people like me. He’s close. I’m next. Sylar will kill me.’ Mohinder couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak. He wanted to deny what Zane was saying, but it was the truth. He had come to the same conclusion himself. ‘You’re special, Mohinder. I felt so alone before I met you, and now… I don’t want to die without… I need you, Mohinder. Make love to me. Please.’

 

_Things were supposed to happen this way_.

 

Mohinder nodded mutely and let Zane roll them over. He spread his legs wide and Mohinder settled his hips between Zane’s thighs. With his thumb he wiped the tacky blood from Zane’s chin. He leaned down to kiss him, letting his hand fall over Zane’s heart. Mohinder couldn’t refuse him this, not after all the comfort Mohinder had drawn from him for himself. Mohinder’s soul ached at the desperation in Zane’s plea and at his conviction of his own imminent demise.

 

Mohinder wanted to shake him. He wanted to reason with Zane, to explain that he wasn’t a condemned man and that his fears were unfounded, but he couldn’t. _Fate_, _destiny_ and _karma_ may have been Zane’s superstitious conceits but Mohinder’s logical deduction had led him to the same belief. Nothing was guaranteed, including their survival. Mohinder needed to let Zane have this now or risk regret.

 

_It’s meant to be like this, isn’t it?_

 

‘Have you ever…?’

 

Zane shook his head. Mohinder ran his tongue along Zane’s lips, teasing his mouth open and slowly, slipping inside. The kiss was deep and probing. Zane’s lips parted wider as he let Mohinder explore him. Mohinder tugged tenderly on his bottom lip, cautiously flicking the tip of his tongue where Zane’s skin had ripped earlier. Blood flooded his senses and he pulled back. He mouthed, damply, under Zane’s chin and down his neck. His hands caressed Zane’s shoulders and thumbed at the blunt ridge of his collarbones before dipping down and circling his hard nipples.

 

_Tell me I’m special._

 

‘You’re special to me, Zane.’ Mohinder whispered in his ear. He wanted to say that there was nothing to worry about, that it wouldn’t hurt and that they would do this again when they were safe, but Mohinder didn’t want to promise something he didn’t believe was true.

 

He kissed his way down Zane’s body. It felt more like a funeral procession than the joyous celebration it should have been. Their fear corrupted their every touch. Zane drew up his knees and planted his feet flat on the bed, spreading his legs further apart. He played with Mohinder’s hair when he placed his head against his inner thigh, cheek to skin, and sighed. Mohinder’s lips moved along his cock. The excitement and adulation of earlier was gone. All Mohinder felt now was sorrow and an acute sense of impending loss.

 

_Zane_.

 

His tongue swept across the head of Zane’s erection. Mohinder let himself savour the other man’s essence, trying not to think that this would be the last time he would experience this. He dropped his lips to the root of Zane’s cock and lapped at his skin. He nuzzled his face into the crisp, dark hair as he inhaled his musky scent. Mohinder wanted to memorise Zane with all his senses.

 

Cold, hard plastic was being pressed into his palm. Mohinder drew back and caught Zane’s eye. The held each other’s gaze as he slicked his fingers with the cool liquid. Mohinder trailed his fingers along the cleft of Zane’s ass. He massaged circles into the muscles of his abdomen, helping him to relax through his anticipation. Mohinder lowered his head again. His jaw fall open widely and he sucked in Zane’s balls, tenderly swiping his tongue against them. While Zane was thrashing beneath him and swearing above him, Mohinder pressed his finger inside and twisted the tip to ease him open.

 

Zane’s balls fell from his mouth with a noise that seemed far too obscene for the intimate nature of what they were doing. Mohinder’s tongue dipped into Zane’s navel before he laid his forehead against the undulating muscles. He concentrated on Zane’s cries of pleasure and astonishment as his finger thrust in and out of him. 

 

Shifting upwards, he swept the flat of his tongue over the hard nubs of Zane’s nipples. He sucked one into his mouth and scraped it with his teeth, pulling his finger from Zane’s tightness and pressing in again with two. This time, Zane’s cries were louder. They sounded more of pain than pleasure and Mohinder captured his lips to try and drown out the unhappy noises.

 

_Things were supposed to happen this way_.

 

He knew Zane must be hurting. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was clenched. Mohinder’s free hand was skating over his body, trying to work loose the muscles in his stomach and legs. Mohinder knew he couldn’t stop, they needed this. He scissored his fingers. Zane cursed and tangled his hand in Mohinder’s hair. Their teeth clattered together as Zane tugged him down. There was blood in their mouths once more. Mohinder didn’t know if Zane’s lip had torn open again or if his own had been ripped this time, but the metallic tang was sliding between their tongues and staining their kiss. Violence and consolation seemed to define their relationship.

 

_It’s meant to be like this, isn’t it?_

 

In a strange way Mohinder thought it fitting that this hurt. He didn’t want to cause Zane any pain but he couldn’t imagine it happening in any other way. Despite gritting his teeth and clenching his fingers, Zane didn’t object or ask him to stop. Mohinder thought that perhaps Zane needed the edge of pain too. Three of Mohinder’s fingers were stretching him now and Zane pulled out of the kiss to rip open a silver package with his teeth.

 

His hands slid between them, trembling slightly. Zane grasped his cock firmly with one hand and rolled the condom on with the other, lovingly stroking him when he was done. Mohinder groaned at the chill of the lube as Zane smoothed it liberally over his length. He wasn’t sure when Zane had taken back the small tube. Mohinder could have sworn he had dropped it behind him after he had greased up his fingers, leaving the tube easily within his grasp but out of Zane’s reach. It seemed such an insignificant thing to bother him. After all, the sheets were padded up and twisted about them as they moved on the bed, there was no reason the lubricant wouldn’t have been knocked closer to Zane’s hand.

 

_Zane_.

 

Mohinder pulled his fingers free from Zane’s ass before pushing the blunt head of his cock inside. He held Zane’s hips steady as he tried to arch off the bed at the invasion. Mohinder swore as he pressed in deeper, feeling the tight walls of Zane’s body gripping him closely. He brushed the sweat from Zane’s forehead with a shaky hand. It had been a long time since Mohinder had been with anyone and years since he had been with a man. It had been longer still since he had felt anything so virginally tight around his dick. He paused. The break was as much for his own sake as for Zane’s. He needed a minute to breathe and to keep himself from thrusting wildly.

 

For a moment the room was filled with the sounds of their laboured breathing. Zane’s eyes were scrunched shut and a trickle of blood was leaking from his lip as he gripped it sharply between his teeth. Mohinder closed his eyes to the unsettling redness on Zane’s pale skin and tried to push away the memory of Dale’s corpse. Now wasn’t the time to imagine Zane in that state. He felt Zane stroking his cheek and rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip. When Mohinder opened his eyes again, Zane was looking directly into them. He tilted his hips and gripped Mohinder’s ass, sliding him fully inside.

 

‘Zane!’ Mohinder cried out, overcome with the heat and friction. Zane seemed to flinch away from the sound of his name. He adjusted quickly and started rolling his hips upwards against Mohinder’s, pulling at his ass and encouraging him to move. Slowly, Mohinder moved back and forth as Zane arched up to meet his every thrust. The ragged pants tumbling from his lips told Mohinder he was brushing the man’s prostate with every sharp stroke.

 

 ‘Zane! Oh, fuck. Oh, Zane, you feel so good. Za—’ Zane’s tongue was forcing its way between Mohinder’s lips, smothering his words. His hand held Mohinder by the back of his neck, pressing their faces together. Mohinder wanted to kiss his neck and face and shoulders. He wanted to whisper and whimper in his ear. He wanted to let Zane know how special he was but Zane wouldn’t let him pull back. When he murmured Zane’s name into the kiss, anger flashed across his face and Mohinder felt sharp teeth nipping at his tongue and cutting off his speech.

 

_Zane_.

 

Mohinder started to push in harder and faster, sliding his hand between them to tug at Zane’s dick. His hot, taut skin was wet and slippery from his pre-come and the remains of the lube he had used as he masturbated earlier. As he stroked Zane off the question of the lube kept nagging at him – how had Zane grabbed the tube from across the room? How had Zane reached the lube at the end of the bed? He shook his head with a twist of his wrist, trying to clear his mind and focus on the task at hand. More questions just pressed at him from all sides – why did Zane wince when Mohinder cried out his name? How did Zane lift him when he fell in the shower? What did it mean that Zane still hadn’t reacted to Dale’s death? Why did the wail of the pipes affect him so greatly?

 

_Sylar_.

 

‘Shit!’ the man below him yelled as he climaxed. Hot spurts of come shot over Mohinder’s hand and seared like a brand onto their skin. The body under him was clenching and seizing around his cock. Even as his own orgasm took him over, Mohinder couldn’t stop the images that ran through his mind: Dale’s corpse, red Skittles, open curtains. The crack of his father’s neck as it snapped.

 

_Sylar._

_Zane_.

 

_Sylar_.

 

He fell forwards. Desperately, he supported his weight on his elbows, hovering above the man he never knew, and refusing to let their bodies touch. Those murderous hands were stroking his arms and pressing into his chest to feel the thump of his heart. The face of a killer was staring up at him in open-mouthed awe. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in Mohinder’s throat as he _finally_ realised that the connection he had thought they had, their understanding and their bond were nothing but a lie.

 

Mohinder pulled back as the monster from his nightmares tried to kiss him. His head cocked to the side and he regarded Mohinder with _that_ look. On Zane it had made Mohinder feel disconcerted and now, on Sylar, it chilled him to the bone. He yanked himself free from the other man’s body and scrabbled backwards on the bed.

 

_Destiny brought us together like this. _

 

He was sick. Sick and depraved, and Mohinder had embraced and comforted him. He felt soiled and unclean as the semen on his skin started to prickle and dry - the semen of his father’s killer.

 

A heavy hand was grasping his shoulder and shaking him. ‘Mohinder? Mohinder, are you ok?’ Mohinder nodded his head, because, what else was there to do? At any moment he expected to feel that hand wrap around his neck and crush the life out of him or blood to gush down his face as his skull was sliced open. Instead, Mohinder was pulled down onto Sylar’s shoulder. Fingers combed through his hair and calming sweet nothings were being whispered into his skin. Mohinder breathed deeply. The scent of _Zane_ was everywhere. The same despair that had risen in his gut at the discovery of Dale’s body was back again, but now there was no one to soothe it away.

 

Lips were smacking wetly and indecently at his neck. ‘Thank you, Mohinder. I think… we’re meant to be together.’ Mohinder drew back and stared at the man before him. He ran the back of his hand down Sylar’s cheek and felt the rough scratch of his stubble against his fingers. Mohinder watched as his eyes fluttered shut at the caress. He wanted desperately to believe that he was wrong. He ached for this to be another mistake, another figment of his tortured imagination, but for the first time since he had met this man, things were finally falling into place. _Deceit_. _Deception_. _Betrayal_. He wanted to slap the dishonest words from Sylar’s mouth.

 

Now, those deep brown eyes were searching his face in confusion. Mohinder just cupped his jaw as he had done so many times before and smiled. ‘It’s ok, Zane.’ He pressed their lips together and swallowed the bile that threatened to escape. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Everything will be alright once we get to New York.’ Sylar wasn’t the only one capable of deceit.

 

Mohinder got up and walked calmly to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

 

_It’s meant to be like this, isn’t it?_

 

Mohinder shut his eyes against Zane’s words as they rang in his mind’s ear.

 

_Destiny brought us together like this. _

 

Mohinder turned on the shower to let the drum of the water and the wail of the pipes mask his movements.

 

_Things were supposed to happen this way_.

 

Mohinder bent over the toilet and retched.


	7. Defensive

Mohinder brushed his teeth for a third time. He willed the bile to stop welling in his throat, but with only the flimsy door of the motel bathroom to separate him from Sylar it felt as if his every nightmare, every fatalistic terror his imagination had conjured up in the blackest depth of night, had been made real. He spat violently; toothpaste, saliva and vomit splattered the sink. He turned on the taps and rinsed the porcelain clean once more. Mohinder gripped the sides of the sink until his knuckles were white and the pads of his fingers grew numb with the pressure. He needed to focus and to think. He rolled the vile taste in his mouth, grateful that he could no longer detect any trace of Sylar’s semen lingering behind his teeth or under his tongue.

When he thought of how he had comforted the other man, reached for him and _pleasured_ him, Mohinder’s stomach dropped. He felt as if he had been kneed in the groin, kicked in the gut, and slapped in the face all at once. Mohinder felt strangely hollow inside, as if Sylar had ripped out his very core. Worse yet, it seemed as if Mohinder had simply stood before him and let Sylar abuse him. He’d encouraged him, kissed him, and urged Sylar on while he stripped Mohinder of his morals and his dignity.

Mohinder slapped his hand on the mirror, pressing his palm flat to the cool glass until the pressure on the scabs that marked his palm became intolerable. Never had Mohinder felt so betrayed and deceived. His hand closed into a fist, his skin squeaking as it skidded along the condensation on the glass. Mohinder was angry now, but just as with Dale’s death, he found anger infinitely preferable to hopeless despair.

He twisted the taps on again, and water rushed out in a powerful stream, splashing everywhere. Cold drops scattered on his torso as he leaned in and cleaned his teeth once more, but the chill barely registered. Mechanically, he stepped into the shower. By some miracle the water was still warm and, at the sudden change in temperature, goose pimples shuddered up and down Mohinder’s body, from the hollow of his throat and the nape of his neck to the bottom curve of his ankles.

Quickly, plans and strategies began to form in his mind. His cell phone was in the other room. Could he call 911 while Sylar was in the shower? Could he delay Sylar here in the motel, using whatever wiles necessary, until the police arrived? More importantly, could he convince the authorities of what he knew to be the truth? What could he say: ‘Hello, operator, I have just discovered my lover is a serial killer’? He understood now why _Zane_ had been so keen to avoid calling the police to Dale’s corpse. Was Mohinder now an accessory to Sylar’s crimes, an accomplice in the eyes of the law as much as he was in his own guilty conscience? How many more innocents would be killed if a man of Sylar’s untold abilities faced the small town police? Nothing would be achieved beyond angering him. Sylar would escape to hunt down more abilities, in all probability slaughtering Mohinder before he left.

Mohinder thought of Dale’s corpse and gagged as he wondered how much it hurt to be scalped that way. Her eyes had been open in a macabre mask of terror. Her face had been a rictus of unknown horrors. What torture had Sylar, the monster _he_ had brought to her doorstep, inflicted upon her? He saw again the vision of his father’s death. That at least had been mercifully quick. One sickening snap of bones and his life had been extinguished. Would Sylar show him the same clemency? Somehow Mohinder doubted that would be the case. Sylar seemed fixated and obsessed with him; Mohinder suspected that, whatever might transpire, he would not be free until one, or both, of them were dead.

Tears of frustration and impotence were spilling down his cheeks and without realising what he was doing, Mohinder found himself pounding on the wall of the shower. Over and over again he hit the walls, glad that the slap of skin on tile was muffled by the screech and rumble of the pipes. Mohinder lashed out until his arms were weak and his knuckles were bruising. He turned his head up under the spray of the shower and let the water beat directly onto his face. It washed away the salty tracks where his tears had run, streamed through his hair and ran in rivulets down the dips and crests of his face. Mohinder let the water sluice away his panic, closing his eyes as his fingers went automatically to his stomach and scratched away the semen that still stained him there.

His mind recoiled at the memories of what they had done here, on the bed, and in the car, but now wasn’t the time for self-recrimination. Mohinder pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to breathe deeply and calmly. He twisted the taps for more hot water and the room was filled with a high pitched wail. Instantly the image of Zane, hunched over and in pain, shielding his ears to the deafening sound, filled his mind. Mohinder smiled grimly and adjusted the pressure. There was no need to acclimatise Sylar to loud noises.

Sylar had flaunted his weakness under Mohinder’s nose. He gave up thanks to Dale, wherever her soul may be, for in stealing her power, Sylar had stolen her Achilles heel.

_“I thought the headaches at first were gonna kill me. I'd lie awake at night thinking that my head was gonna explode. A cockroach crawling across my neighbor's floor was like a marching band parading through my house.”_

The memory of Dale’s words was a cold comfort. He needed to exploit this sensitivity before Sylar mastered control of his enhanced hearing. Mohinder wracked his brain trying to calculate how much time Sylar had had to learn to manipulate Zane’s ability, but it was a futile line of inquiry. He couldn’t be sure how long ago the real Zane had been murdered. He couldn’t be sure how many others Sylar had killed, but that too wasn’t worth dwelling on, not now. If Sylar had obtained telepathy or regeneration then Mohinder’s fate was already sealed.

***

Mohinder couldn’t control the nervous way his heart raced as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob. The downy hairs up and down his spine stood on end in an expression of fear so primal and visceral then he was certain it shone like a beacon, ready to alert Sylar to what Mohinder now knew. His palm was slick with sweat and it took him a few moments to grip the handle tightly enough to open the door. Every part of his body seemed to rebel against him and his every cell screamed at his brain to run, to flee, to survive. He pulled the door open and his heart skipped a beat. Sylar was perched on the edge of the bed, still completely nude. He sat hunched forward, his head cocked to the side, and Mohinder knew that he had been listening. Mohinder crossed his arms, as casually as he could to try to disguise the way they trembled. Sylar’s eyes were on him, dragging up from his knees, over the towel that he seemed to see straight through, up to Mohinder’s face, and darting back down again to stare at his chest. Enhanced hearing seemed superfluous when Mohinder’s blood pounded in terror loudly enough to ring in his own ears. Sylar’s eyes narrowed as Mohinder hovered in the doorway. Even through the façade of Zane, Mohinder was certain he could see suspicion forming on his features.

‘Mohinder?’ His voice was gentle and he held his hands out, palms up and comforting. Sylar gestured for Mohinder to come forward and sit beside him, keeping his movements calm and slow as if anticipating another anxiety attack. ‘You’ve been sick?’

Mohinder nodded, clinging more tightly to the doorjamb for support. He didn’t yet trust himself to speak. He lowered his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his temples as Sylar had done earlier. ‘Too much sugar,’ he eventually whispered, jerking his chin at the open packet of Skittles still scattered on the bedside table.

Sylar’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stuttered. His voice, his intonation and the look of concern in his eye was in every way indistinguishable from the Zane Mohinder had known. ‘Come here.’

_A necessary evil_, Mohinder repeated to himself as he strode towards the bed. He resisted the urge to take a deep breath, unsure of what might give him away. He ran his hands through Sylar’s hair and hoped that the shiver of fear that ran up his spine could be excused as a shudder of arousal. Mohinder tilted Sylar’s head up, tugged gently at the nape of his neck and pressed their lips together. It was a long, slow kiss, and a perfect parody of affection. Sylar’s tongue slid into his mouth and when Mohinder moaned he was ashamed to realise it was only half an act. Sylar swallowed the sound and groaned in return, pulling at Mohinder’s hips and groping his ass until Mohinder settled himself on the other man’s lap. With his hand on the small of Mohinder’s back, Sylar held him close. The scab on his bottom lip was hard and unpleasant. It seemed to be a kernel of truth, a crack in the layers of falsehood and deceit that Sylar had woven. The scratch of it against Mohinder’s mouth denounced this all for the sick pretence that it was.

Mohinder kissed him more firmly now, just as he would have if this had really been Zane. He rocked his hips against Sylar’s, feeling the other man’s erection growing quickly. Mohinder tried to ignore the way Sylar fondled him through the thin terrycloth, kneading his ass. Mohinder wondered how much of Sylar’s bodily response was an act. He recalled how he had pushed Zane onto the bed after finding Dale’s body, how he had held him down and rubbed up against him. Had Mohinder’s desperate actions spurred Sylar on to use him this way? Sylar’s hands skimmed over his waist and clutched at the knot in his towel. Without thinking, Mohinder clamped his hand down over Sylar’s and held them still with more force than he had intended. Sylar broke their kiss and looked up with Zane’s expression of helpless confusion.

Mohinder’s chest felt tight and he swallowed loudly to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. When those wide brown eyes stared up at him, Mohinder felt so tempted to convince himself that he was wrong. The man may have been a lie but Mohinder had felt a true affinity for Zane. Now he seemed to be looking down on the corpse of a friend, a lover, who had recently passed away. His fingers carded through Sylar’s hair, so soft beneath his hand and Mohinder’s whole body ached with loss. He recalled how Zane had looked curled up in the passenger seat of the car, his hair ruffled and pushed forward, with Mohinder’s coat tucked beneath his chin and Mohinder’s kisses still fresh on his lips. So young, he had thought as he watched him sleep, so innocent and helpless and lonely. Mohinder’s every protective instinct had made him reach out to Zane, wanting to keep him close and safe.

Sylar mouthed down his neck and peppered tender kisses along his clavicle, and Mohinder couldn’t stop his sigh when it escaped. It was harder than he had expected to pull apart what he had felt for Zane and lock it away to deal with later. Still, when Sylar tried to capture his lips once more, Mohinder leaned back just out of reach. He ran his thumb over Sylar’s mouth, settling the pad of his finger over the scab and pushing down until Sylar winced.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered. Mohinder brushed his lips over Sylar’s forehead. One soft, tender kiss between his eyes to ease his frown and Mohinder had marked him. He thought of the gun he had taken from the intruder, and stashed in his desk drawer. He knew he would have to press the barrel where his lips had been.

Mohinder slid off Sylar’s lap, discreetly pulling the towel more closely around himself. He glanced out of the window; already the moon was high in the evening sky. It must have been about six or seven, and Mohinder realised that if he had truly pushed himself, refused to stop for more than the minimum amount of sleep by the side of the road or to refill the gas tank, they would have been in New York by now. They would be sitting in his father’s apartment, kissing and laughing as he walked Sylar step by step through the fruits of his research. A flash of that charming smile and Mohinder would gladly have handed Sylar an alphabetised list of future victims. An icy rage flowed through him at the thought. His anger prickled at his skin and it was only with a concerted effort that he stopped himself from attacking the monster beside him. Mohinder couldn’t bear to think about what could have been.

Try as he might to conceal his anger, Sylar still noticed and peered at the window over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Mohinder muttered. He cleared his throat and repeated, ‘Probably nothing.’

He clapped Sylar on the shoulder and nudged him to stand up. ‘Come on. Let’s get moving again.’ Mohinder’s tone was laden with false cheer.

Sylar ignored the suggestion and the hand on his shoulder. He grasped Mohinder’s face in his hands and stared deep into his eyes. ‘We… we don’t have to go,’ he started. He blushed a little at the shock Mohinder didn’t try to hide, but ploughed on regardless. ‘I mean, you still look pale and it’s dark now. Maybe we could spend the night here?’

Sylar was chewing at his bottom lip, his gaze lowered and to the side. He scratched at the back of his neck and Mohinder’s stomach lurched at the calculated display of naked want. Only a few hours ago Mohinder would have been fooled. He would have reached for Zane and caressed his face. He would have pressed his lips to Zane’s ear and told him not to be shy, to ask for what he really wanted. Then, when Zane looked up, eyes gleaming and the corners of his mouth turned up, stammering as he pleaded for Mohinder to make love to him all night, Mohinder would have tumbled him down against the pillows. It would have been stupid and reckless and still Mohinder knew with absolute certainty that he would have acquiesced.

Now, he stroked Sylar’s cheek as he stalled for time. He didn’t understand why Sylar would want to delay his ultimate goal. For the sick thrill of taking Mohinder as many times as he could before he killed him? Or was this just another artless request Sylar imagined _Zane_ would have made? Maybe it would be safest to do as Sylar asked, to give himself up to the pretence of Zane in order to keep the charade going and leave Sylar none the wiser when they finally reached New York. But whatever Sylar’s motives and whatever suspicions his refusal might raise, Mohinder knew he couldn’t sacrifice himself that way.

Sylar’s stubble caught on the skin of his palm and he remembered how it felt to have that scratch against his cheek, his chest, and his inner thighs. Guilt and disgust curled in his gut and he shook his head sadly as he repeated in his mind, _anyone would have been fooled. It’s not my fault_. Sylar’s disappointed whine roused him from his thoughts. He caught Sylar’s eye and shook his head more decisively.

‘Zane,’ Mohinder tried to ignore the tremble in his voice as he said the name, ‘we can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Please.’ Sylar leaned forward to kiss him, but Mohinder turned his face away, leaving Sylar to press his lips sloppily to Mohinder’s cheek.

‘We’ve wasted too much time already.’ Sylar flinched at his choice of words and Mohinder was tempted to carry on brusquely, twisting the knife what little he could, but he caught himself in time. He wouldn’t have treated Zane that way, he couldn’t have. Mohinder stopped and kissed Sylar once, quickly and chastely on the lips.

‘I didn’t mean it like that, ok? I just meant that we’ve stayed in one place too long already. Sylar could be anywhere, waiting for us.’ Mohinder deliberately glanced at the window again, and this time when he felt his heart race with the fear of being discovered, he hoped that Sylar heard it with his ill-gotten power. For once his body’s betrayal could work in his favour. ‘We’re so close, Zane. We can reach New York by tomorrow morning if I drive all night. Please don’t ask me to put you in more danger than I already have. Please.’

Sylar nodded reluctantly and Mohinder bit at his lip to stop the grin of success that threatened to break across his face. Sylar could hardly deny the fear incited by the spectre of himself. Mohinder swept his hand through Sylar’s hair, and he patted him playfully on the ass as Sylar stood to make his way to the bathroom, collecting his overnight bag along the way. When the door shut between them, Mohinder let himself fall back against the sheets and covered his face with his hands. When he heard Sylar turn the water on, he finally exhaled a sigh of relief.

***

Mohinder paced the room restlessly as he waited for Sylar to shower. He was itching to do something, anything. He needed to take action but his bag was packed and there was nothing to do but wait. Mohinder tried not to think about who Zane had really been, if he had suffered and what role Mohinder had played in his untimely death. He tried to imagine what it would be like to take a life, even a life as vile and malevolent as Sylar’s. Mohinder found his throat growing dry as he tried to visualise pulling the trigger, the heavy weight of the gun in his hand and the burning, acrid smell of death around him. Would Sylar bleed as much as Dale had done? He shook his head quickly and tried to push the thought from his mind. Again and again he tried to picture ridding the world of this evil, but his imagination kept failing at the last moment.

He ran his hand absently over his messenger bag, feeling the outline of the laptop inside. He needed proof, he realised. He had to have evidence beyond the gut feeling he knew to be true before he could exact retribution. Mohinder knew better than to take out his laptop here, where he had no weapons to defend himself when the evidence proved him correct, but still he burned to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was right. Mohinder clung to the knowledge, and the pain it caused him, that Sylar had killed his father; had killed Dale, Zane and untold others. He dredged up all the raw hurt he had locked away at his father’s funeral to drown out the part of him that fervently hoped he was wrong. Mohinder couldn’t indulge his desire for Sylar to be the Zane he knew, and for his panic to have been a madness of his own making, because deep in his very core Mohinder knew they were false hopes.

Sylar exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He hummed to himself, dressed in a pair of jeans and drying his hair with a towel. He padded about the room and collected his dirty clothes to pack away. Mohinder watched him. A single trickle of water meandered down the back of his neck. Mohinder dug his nails into his palms to punish himself for the involuntary urge he felt to get up and lap the water from his skin. Sylar fumbled with his bag as he dug through it for a clean t-shirt and his movements were so familiar that it hurt to see. Despite everything, Mohinder could not drag his eyes away. He knew _Zane’s_ every quirk by heart: the way he ducked his head when he blushed; the way he stood knock-kneed and awkward as if trying to diminish his height and blend into the background; the way he smiled widely, just a hint of bashfulness when he caught Mohinder staring, pleased and confused all in one.

Under the cloying scent of the cheap motel shampoo, Mohinder could still smell _Zane_. It was useless to repeat to himself that Zane never was and never would be, it didn’t stop the way his body responded to him. He still wanted to press his nose behind the other man’s ear, to the crook of his neck or between his legs, and breathe him in deeply. With every inhalation, Mohinder felt as if the wound left in his soul by what Sylar had done was ripped open anew. It added to his torture that Mohinder was forced to deny what his very senses were telling him.

He could still taste their kisses on his lips and when Sylar sat beside him on the bed, pecking him on the lips absently as he packed, Mohinder grabbed his face and surged forward. He ignored Sylar’s grunt of surprise, his eyes wide at Mohinder’s unexpected ferocity. Mohinder plunged his tongue deep into Sylar’s mouth and swirled it around, desperate to find some bitterness or a hint of something sour. Again and again he darted in with the tip of his tongue, skimming over his teeth and seeking out every crevice and hidden part of Sylar’s mouth, but there was nothing to be found. There was no warning there that Mohinder had missed, no sign at all that his panic and lust had obscured.

Sylar tasted like the cool mint of the toothpaste they shared, and a hint of grape soda still lingered on the back of his tongue. His lips were soft, his kisses quietly confident, tender but insistent. Under his t-shirt, his skin was still smooth and warm, his muscles firm and his shoulders broad. His hair was unstyled and it tickled Mohinder’s palm as he buried his fingers at the back of his head. Sylar’s breath was warm against his skin. He was whimpering now as Mohinder bit at his mouth, and the noises brought back with even greater force Mohinder’s fury that this monster had been before him all along, hidden in plain sight. Yet all Mohinder could register was that the gasps and moans that Sylar made were pure _Zane_. In the car, outside the diner, in this very bed, Mohinder had swallowed down those selfsame sounds with a grin, wrapped his arms around the other man’s body and done his best to make him whimper louder. It was with disgust but no real surprise that as the kiss continued, Mohinder found himself growing erect in the murderer’s embrace. He broke away from Sylar’s lips before he could notice and things were taken inexcusably too far once more. He stroked Sylar’s jaw and stared into his eyes, looking for the key that justified and explained what they had done. But there was nothing, nothing but _Zane_ staring back. It made Mohinder want to weep because that was the cruellest, most unfair trick of all.

‘Mohinder,’ Sylar started, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head, but Mohinder didn’t ever want to hear his name on those lips again.

‘Don’t.’

Sylar shifted closer and Mohinder resisted the urge to pull away. He encircled Mohinder in his arms and pulled him down to rest his face against his shoulder. Sylar held him in a close embrace. Mohinder blinked back the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks, burying his face into the black cotton and Sylar’s pale skin. His ears were filled with his own ragged breathing as his throat grew tight in sorrow. He fisted his hands in the back of Sylar’s shirt, knowing that if he didn’t hold on tightly his resolve would break and he would punch, kick, and claw until Sylar admitted the truth. Gently Sylar stroked Mohinder’s hair and rocked him back and forth. He whispered mindless platitudes just as he had done when Mohinder had found Dale’s body, but the grief was greater now and the words no longer a comfort. It was a farce but Mohinder couldn’t pull away. Not because Sylar was refusing to release him or because he needed to keep the charade as seamless as possible, but because right now he needed just one moment to close his eyes to the truth and seek comfort in the arms of a man who never existed. He pressed his nose to the hollow of Sylar’s throat and dropped one kiss to his skin, his lips catching on the rough edge of his stubble. Mohinder would never allow himself to think of this man as Zane again.

Mohinder sat back and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Sylar’s head was tilted to the side as he watched him, bewildered.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

‘It’ll be ok,’ Sylar replied, but it sounded more like a desperate plea than any consolation.

‘Yeah,’ Mohinder muttered. Then with a deep breath he smiled falsely and stood, offering Sylar his hand. ‘It’ll be ok,’ he parroted back.

_It will never be ok._


	8. Uncomfortable

Mohinder counted the streetlamps to calm the thoughts that raced and tangled in his mind as he drove. A light dusting of snow began to fall, glistening in the warm yellow glow of the lights and melting ahead on the asphalt of the road until it was gleaming and slick before them. Around them were houses, parked cars, yards, and signs of life, all resting and dormant in the midnight darkness. He should have felt safer bordered by such normality, but all Mohinder could see were the hallmarks of a future that would never be his if he failed: children’s bikes against a picket fence and two-storey houses, wrapped up tight and safe with slumbering families inside. Weakness and vulnerability surrounded him and his chest grew tight at the thought that with every passing second he was bringing Sylar deeper into their midst.

  


He squeezed the steering wheel tighter, pressing the gas pedal harder, wanting to whip the car through the suburbs and leave these families untouched and innocent. Mohinder knew he had no choice but to keep a steady course. It was too late to change tack or revise his plan – if only he hadn’t been so blind with panic and fear and lust, if only he had seen Sylar for who and what he was, then maybe... He shook his head, sucking in his lips as he concentrated on the road ahead to stop himself from falling again into a mood of helplessness and despair.

  
  


Sylar was a parasite, a leech on society and humanity itself, that need to be ripped off before he could inflict more damage or grow more bloated with blood and abilities. Mohinder thought of the curare and the sedatives he had found among his father’s supplies and the IV stand that had been tucked into the hall closet, nestled snugly beside the mop and broom.  At the time, Mohinder had thought nothing of the discovery, smiling at his father’s dedication to his research and wondering at the eccentric portrait he must have painted to Eden. He licked his lips, recalling Eden’s sudden and unexpected kiss goodbye. If Sylar killed him now, then who would mourn for him? Who would protect the world from Sylar if Mohinder failed?

  
  


Mohinder cleared his throat. He would not---could not---fail. Beside him, Sylar remained motionless and unaware as Mohinder plotted his demise. Weeks ago Mohinder had idly put the curare aside, imagining that his father had intended it for advanced tests on his “patient zero” and thinking perhaps that if he found this “Sylar”, then just a name, a curiosity not a nightmare, that he could continue where his father had left off. Now, Mohinder wondered how much Chandra had known and suspected. Had he, like Mohinder, had the scales fall from his eyes and in one staggering flash of realisation understood the true horror of what Sylar had become? Had his father made the curare to disable Sylar not in the name of scientific enquiry but for the express purpose of administering justice? Would this be yet another of Chandra’s plans that Mohinder was left to complete? If so, Mohinder thought grimly, Sylar’s death would be his and his father’s most important achievement.

  
  


The song on the radio changed to something loud and clanging. The beat was angry and discordant, and the snarled lyrics spoke of pain, justice, and retribution. Mohinder smiled coldly and turned up the volume, pleased when Sylar shifted restlessly in his sleep. They had fallen into a pattern since Dale’s murder: Sylar would rest in the car, awkwardly curling up on the reclined seat while Mohinder drove in silence, immersed in his thoughts and the sounds of the night. When dawn broke, they would stop, eat and find a motel. Mohinder would collapse, exhausted and to his now shame, sexually sated. But not tonight and not today. Mohinder vowed that they would reach New York no matter how tired he became. He couldn’t imagine one more night in Sylar’s embrace and he shivered in disgust as he remembered how earnestly Sylar had pleaded, just hours earlier, that they remain in the motel, fucking like animals, while Dale’s body cooled on the coroner’s bench.

  
  


He turned the radio up again. Mohinder didn’t like the music or the DJ. It was a local rock and metal station, something that ‘Zane’ couldn’t object to. Mohinder wanted to disturb Sylar’s sleep and ensure he was tired and sluggish so that when the confrontation came, Mohinder had every small advantage that he could think of stacked in his favour. To his own ears, the music could barely be termed loud, but when Sylar grunted and rolled towards him, cracking his neck as he tried to get comfortable, Mohinder knew it was having the desired effect.

  
  


He tapped his hand on his knee in time to the beat of the music, suddenly struck with the urge to whistle as an irrational feeling of euphoria flooded through him with this small and simple victory. The situation, still dire and terrifying was not hopeless and Mohinder, although without abilities, was not, Sylar would find, entirely powerless. It was with a grim satisfaction that Mohinder exploited a weakness borne of Sylar’s bloodlust. He could turn the dial again, twisting his fingers sharply until Sylar screamed in pain. He could switch the frequency to static until the high-pitched crackle had Sylar doubled over and dry heaving as he found just how weak his body remained, abilities or not. But instead, Mohinder turned it down a little. He squeezed Sylar’s shoulder as if in apology, knowing full well the slight adjustment, enough to make it seem as if Mohinder didn’t wish to be rude in playing the radio while the other man tried to sleep, would do nothing to ease the pain sure to be mounting in Sylar’s head.

  
  


Sylar sighed and smiled weakly to acknowledge the gesture and the touch. As Mohinder watched, he nuzzled his face against the headrest, one hand darting out to rest casually on Mohinder’s thigh while his eyes fell shut once more. Mohinder’s muscles tensed and he suppressed a shudder. Only now, when every touch made Mohinder’s skin crawl in revulsion, did he notice how often and how confidently Sylar touched him. Sylar’s hand would be on the small of his back whenever they stopped at a gas station. In diners, Sylar would tangle their legs together under the table. In the car, he stroked Mohinder’s arm as he drove and trailed his fingers along Mohinder’s inseam until with a false blush and a stammer so uniquely _Zane_, he pulled back, realising how close to Mohinder’s crotch he had let his fingers wander. Mohinder laid his hand over Sylar’s as he had done when he had still thought him Zane, interlacing their fingers until Sylar hummed contentedly. Content was what Mohinder wanted: content meant unsuspecting.

  
  


He turned to Sylar and watched as he pulled Mohinder’s coat more snugly around his body. The sheepskin collar was tucked below his nose, catching on his stubble until small flecks of wool clung to his face. He snuffled into it as he fidgeted in the seat. Mohinder had been the one to first drape the coat around him, stopped by the side of the road with the taste of Zane’s come in his mouth and coating the back of his throat. He had wanted to shield Zane’s shaking body from the cold and lock in the afterglow of his orgasm so that he would sleep soundly, skin damp from Mohinder’s kisses and muscles slack with release. When, after tossing and turning in his seat the next day, Zane had grabbed Mohinder’s coat from the backseat and flung it around himself once more, Mohinder had merely smiled. It had seemed an innocent and endearing quirk, juvenile, perhaps, but cute and artless.

  
  


Maybe it was strange that so much should become wrapped up in a single gesture but it had tugged at Mohinder’s heartstrings to see Zane clinging to his clothing, wanting to surround himself with Mohinder’s scent, warmth and presence when he couldn’t have his hands on Mohinder himself. It reminded Mohinder of his Sixth Form girlfriend and the way she had insisted on slinging his school blazer around her shoulders as they huddled together shivering behind the bike sheds, sharing kisses and stolen cigarettes. It had spoken of new beginnings and things to come, a spark of hope in the darkest hours when all Mohinder should have been thinking about was blood and death and destruction. It was possessive, in a way, staking a claim without words that Zane considered Mohinder his, but Mohinder hadn’t minded. Perhaps he should have bristled at the thought of being owned, of the ties being bound around him by a man he barely knew and with whom he had shared so short a time, but he hadn’t. Instead he had smiled, warmth curling pleasantly in his chest at the thought that this meant more to Zane than a desperate physical release, that there was something more to their relationship than fear and need, that they had a relationship at all.

  
  


He didn’t want to think of the way he had smiled when their fingers brushed together or the way he had inhaled deeply to surround himself in the scent of Zane’s shampoo, his aftershave, and his musk as it lingered in the seams of the lining of his coat. He didn’t want to consider that he had fancied himself falling in love with Zane. Now, he wanted to rip his coat from Sylar’s body. Wasn’t it bad enough to have Sylar’s hand on his leg and to feel Sylar press his lips to his neck whenever the mood struck, without having him also sully Mohinder’s clothes with his touch? What had been sweet was now invasive. What before had been charming was now a violation. It took all of Mohinder’s self-control not to show in his face or his voice how much it affected him to pretend not to know who Sylar was.

  
  


The hand on Mohinder’s thigh tensed as Sylar fidgeted in his seat again, whimpering softly under his breath. Mohinder glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and stifled a gasp when he found Sylar staring back at him intently. He wondered how long Sylar had been watching him and tried not to react beyond a smile he hoped looked natural. He squeezed Sylar’s hand briefly before disentangling his fingers. His palm was damp with sweat where their skin had been pressed together. He brushed the hair from Sylar’s forehead, watching as Sylar blinked at him, suddenly looking bleary eyed and young, in need of Mohinder’s protection. Mohinder gripped the collar of his coat, pushing it down to expose Sylar’s face. He tucked it neatly under his chin to prevent himself from slapping the grin from Sylar’s lips at the thought that it was the real Zane who had needed his protection, the real Zane who had needed his help and the real Zane whom he had failed. Sylar kissed his wrist and rubbed his face against the back of Mohinder’s hand. His grin fell slightly when Mohinder, pretending to concentrate on the road once more, pulled his hand away and settled it back on the steering wheel.

  
  


Sylar pulled the lever and his seat sprung forward. He keened more loudly then, taking Mohinder by surprise. Sylar winced and swore as he shifted about uncomfortably. He pulled his knees up to his chest, black and white shoes perched by the heels on the edge of his seat, staring at Mohinder and frowning as he rested the side of his face on his knees. Mohinder traced the furrow between Sylar’s eyes and down his nose with the pad of his finger before he was conscious of what he was doing. Even now, with what he knew about Sylar and what he had done, his heart still lurched to see someone he had made love to in pain. It was a visceral response to try and help. It was normal and natural, he knew, a sign of his humanity and his compassion, but still his gut twisted in disgust that for one unconscious moment he had comforted the murderer without remorse or ulterior motive.

  
  


‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, aware of how brusque his voice sounded as he spoke to try and conceal his discomfort.

  
  


He softened his tone by trailing his fingers along Sylar’s jaw and then settling his hand over his on his thigh once more. Sylar turned his face away, and a faint blush rose on the back of his neck as he gripped Mohinder’s hand lightly, mumbling an almost inaudible response. Mohinder turned down the radio and repeated his question with a chuckle. Sylar turned back to him, gnawing on the scab on his bottom lip as he hemmed and hawed. Mohinder wanted to tell him to just spit it out, so he could get back to concentrating on what was to come. But Sylar had had more time to settle into his role and he demurred for a few moments longer. He squirmed from side to side in his seat and restlessly ran his thumb over the back of Mohinder’s hand, playing the role of Zane exactly as Mohinder had come to expect. It should be a comfort, Mohinder knew, and a boon to know that Sylar still felt the need to play his part so completely. It was a sign that as false as Mohinder felt in his actions and his words, Sylar had, as yet, no clue his true identity was known.

  
  


‘It’s just kind of... uncomfortable. Sitting. For so long.’

  
  


Sylar watched his face, unblinking, as Mohinder tried to decipher the meaning behind his words. They hadn’t been in the car for more than a few hours, far less than they usually spent cloistered together. There was nothing about the seats or the heating that had changed to explain Sylar’s restless agitation.

  
  


‘Oh!’ The sound escaped Mohinder’s lips as understanding dawned. He bit back a smile, taking perverse joy in knowing he had hurt Sylar, even as he recoiled from the knowledge of how he had come to inflict the pain. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  
  


‘It’s ok.’ Sylar shrugged, staring again out the passenger window as he continued hesitantly. ‘I mean... it’s normal, right? The first time?’

  
  


‘Right,’ Mohinder agreed, wondering if it really had been Sylar’s first time with another man or if this was just another aspect of the character he had constructed for Zane – musician, shy, awkward, earnest, and virginal? Mohinder didn’t want to remember that they had had sex, let alone focus on the details, but they returned to him unbidden at Sylar’s words. There were some things Sylar couldn’t have acted or pretended: the apprehensive way his hands shook as he rolled the condom on Mohinder’s quivering erection; the way he had gasped and jolted at every touch, hypersensitive to Mohinder’s each kiss and caress; the overwhelming tightness around Mohinder’s cock and his fingers, and the way Sylar had struggled to relax into the stretch and invasion. It turned Mohinder’s stomach to think that they had shared something that should have been so special and intimate.

  
  


Why had Sylar chosen him, and why then? He had begged Mohinder to make love to him, playing on Mohinder’s fear that Sylar could be lurking in any shadow or corner to coax him into moving faster physically than Mohinder was used to doing. It had been years since Mohinder had been so reckless as to sleep with anyone, male or female, so soon after meeting them. There should be no shame in it, he tried to convince himself; it had seemed right at the time, but the thought was a hollow and empty comfort. The truth of it was that he had wanted Zane, even when things felt off. He had wanted to push aside his fears and suspicions and fall into the easy rhythm of mindless pleasure. Mohinder didn’t believe in karma, but maybe he had brought this upon himself. If he had stood firm with Zane, listened to his gut, and refused to make love to him no matter how pitifully he had begged, then this added torture could have been avoided. But then, Mohinder reasoned, would he still know what he now knew? Would Sylar’s arrogance still have been his downfall? Would his facade ever have slipped enough to allow Mohinder to piece together the clues?

  
  


‘It won’t hurt so much next time,’ Sylar said quietly, as much a question as a statement.

  
  


‘Right,’ Mohinder agreed.

  
  


The minutes passed in silence. Almost against his will, Mohinder found himself dwelling on Sylar’s purported virginity. It seemed incredible that he should still be a virgin at his age---twenty-eight, maybe thirty---especially when, as much as it rankled Mohinder to admit, Sylar had shown himself to be charming and endearing, easily capable of seducing the objects of his desire. So why wait so long? Why now? Was it simply another sign of Sylar’s sadism? Was it not enough to kill Mohinder’s father, to murder those to whom Mohinder brought him, to deceive and use him? Did Sylar want to twist the knife further, knowing full well how Mohinder would reel when the truth was out? Was this just one more way he could tie them together, to make Mohinder trust in his persona as Zane and further his own agenda, or was there something more?

  
  


He thought of the way Sylar clung to him breathlessly whenever they kissed, of the way he had masturbated, moaning Mohinder’s name while Mohinder slept at his side, and of the way he touched Mohinder whenever he could. Mohinder tried to push away the thought that maybe this---the sex, the want, the desire---wasn’t a part of the act. He refused to believe it was true; there had to be something more, some ulterior motive behind Sylar’s actions. The idea that Sylar should want to delay his ultimate goal, the list of people he could cull for abilities, simply to spend one more night lying tangled together, pretending that nothing but each other mattered, was absurd. It was too human a desire to ascribe to this monster. Mohinder wouldn’t be duped again. To let himself think that Sylar had any true affection for him, even if he could use that to his advantage, was too dangerous a move.

  
  


Playing the part of a considerate lover, Mohinder absently rubbed the small of Sylar’s back. Sylar sighed happily, leaning back into the touch. Mohinder found his thoughts wandering back to his own first time and how his gut had cramped the next morning, how his ass, thighs and back throbbed when he woke. Barely nineteen, hungover and in the bed of a man he had thought himself head over heels in love with, Mohinder had tried to ignore the discomfort and keep up the pretence that he had been more experienced than he really was. But his lover, name since forgotten but face fondly remembered, had seen through it in an instant, had perhaps never been fooled but content to go along with the charade to ease Mohinder’s nerves. He had rolled Mohinder over and massaged his back until his muscles relaxed. Mohinder had felt himself sinking into the mattress, his limbs falling slack as confident fingers worked the knots and tension from his body. Then, when Mohinder was half asleep, and entirely pliant, he had cleaned Mohinder thoroughly, first with a soft washcloth and then with his tongue. Mohinder had gasped. So young and naive, he had never considered what it would be like to have someone kiss and lick him _there_. He had never imagined how good it could feel or thought in a million years that he would ever want to repay the favour.

  
  


But it had felt good. Mohinder recalled with a blush how he had come, all over the sheets and his stomach, just from the new and utterly unexpected sensation of someone’s lips moving so sublimely over his entrance. He had repaid the favour, many times over. If he hadn’t realised, if the truth hadn’t come thundering down on him in that one crushing moment, Mohinder knew he would have done the same for Sylar. They would still be in the motel and Mohinder would have soothed Sylar’s red and swollen opening, licking softly and caressing Sylar’s cock with his hand until he came, letting the pleasure of his orgasm drown out any lingering pain. No vomit, no panic, no fear: that was how it should have been, had Zane been real.

  
  


But Zane had never been real, Mohinder forcibly reminded himself; to fantasise otherwise was madness. He took his hand quickly from Sylar’s back. The small red light on the dashboard told him the gas tank was almost empty. He scanned the horizon for nearby gas stations, glad for the distraction from his unwelcome thoughts as he began to follow the signs that pointed to a rest stop a few miles down the road.

  
  


‘Was it ok?’ Sylar asked quietly. Mohinder glanced at him, unsure exactly to what it was Sylar was referring. So caught up was he in his own thoughts and memories that the minutes had passed without a word spoken between them. Sylar’s body was turned away, and he was watching Mohinder’s reflection in the glass of the window. When he continued, his words were muffled into the collar of Mohinder’s coat, once again wrapped tightly around Sylar’s body. ‘I didn’t do something wrong, did I?’

  
  


Mohinder’s mouth hung open for a moment in shocked silence. He didn’t want to brood anymore on what they had done, but when he didn’t answer at once, Sylar turned to him, wide eyed, hurt, and confused. Mohinder tried to think of him as Zane, just this once, to stop his stomach from turning at how eerily convincing Sylar’s acting could be and to ensure that his own game face was flawless in return.

  
  


‘No, Zane.’ He shook his head to emphasise his words. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact you did everything right, I promise.’

  
  


Sylar grabbed his hand, squeezing tightly as he searched Mohinder’s face.

  
  


‘Really? Because you... you got up so quickly and I thought maybe you wished that we hadn’t and I didn’t know if I’d...’

  
  


Sylar trailed off with a shrug, scratching the back of his neck as he fidgeted apprehensively in his seat. Mohinder twisted his hand away, inclining his head towards the gas station as he used both hands to turn the wheel, in an excuse to put some space between them. He stopped the car at the pump, and turned off the ignition. He paused a moment to carefully choose his words before facing Sylar, who was twisting the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers as his hands moved nervously in his lap. He placed his hands over Sylar’s, to still their restless movement. He stroked up Sylar’s arms, smiling at the way he shivered at the caress, and cupped Sylar’s chin, pulling him forward to kiss him softly. He rested their foreheads together, staring straight and unflinching into Sylar’s eyes as he stroked his cheek with the back of his hand, whispering tenderly against his lips.

  
  


‘I’m sorry, Zane. I was sick. Sick and scared and overwhelmed and I wish it had been different. I wish I could have shown you what you really mean to me.’ Sylar’s eyes fluttered shut and he sighed, his breath hot on Mohinder’s mouth. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t more special for you. But, Zane, I promise, I’ll never forget you. Never forget what happened and how you make me feel.’

  
  


Sylar’s eyes opened again. He smiled and leaned forward impulsively to kiss Mohinder quickly on the lips before pulling back and laughing happily. Mohinder hoped that with that confirmation to Sylar that he was still enamoured with Zane, that they could lay the subject to rest once and for all, letting Mohinder pretend that they had never made love.

  
  


His hopes were dashed almost instantly when Sylar leaned in again and kissed him more hungrily, easing Mohinder’s lips open with his tongue and fondling his chest through his shirt.

  
  


‘Oh, Mohinder,’ he moaned between kisses. ‘Maybe next time, I could...’ He looked down shyly, biting his lip before tilting his head up, chin stuck out defiantly as he stared deep into Mohinder’s eyes. ‘Maybe next time, I could be in you?’

  
  


Mohinder nodded, his fingernails digging into his palms. He concentrated on the half moons of pain cutting into his skin to squash the shudder that threatened to rip through his body at Sylar’s question. Mohinder kissed him tenderly to halt more words from falling from his lips and opened the car door.

  
  


‘Let’s just worry about getting to New York for now, ok, Zane?'


	9. Home

The handle of the gas pump was cold against Mohinder’s palm. He listened to the steady click of the gauge as the gasoline started to fill the tank. He inhaled deeply. The fumes from the petrol burned his throat, making him lightheaded as he watched Sylar emerge slowly from the car. Even with the thick layer of gasoline and diesel in the air around the pumps, Mohinder could still smell Sylar’s scent imbued in the sheepskin collar of his coat. He concentrated on the liquid sounds of the fuel as it moved between the pump and the gas tank, the metallic jostle of the nozzle against the sides of the car, and the sight of his own breath, forming white clouds before him with his every exhalation – anything to keep his mind from Sylar’s words as they had exited the car.

Sylar came to stand behind him. He looped his arms loosely around Mohinder’s waist, pulling him backward until his chest was flush to Mohinder’s spine and his lips pressed against the shell of his ear. Mohinder wanted to push Sylar’s arms away. He was unable to focus on anything but the disconcertingly warm press of Sylar’s crotch to the small of his back. But what excuse could he give? The night was dark and nearly starless. There was no one around to see them nor care. They could stand by the gas pumps kissing and groping each other indecently and the world would be none the wiser. Sylar kissed Mohinder’s temple, tenderly stroked his cheek, and absently caressed him as he nuzzled his nose in Mohinder’s hair, inhaling deeply.

‘You smell fantastic,’ Sylar mumbled, holding Mohinder’s hip tight and pressing his body more firmly against his back. Mohinder clenched his jaw. He wondered if Sylar could feel the tension in his face and made a conscious effort to relax under his hands, concerned that he might inadvertently give away what he knew. Mohinder covered Sylar’s hand with his own and linked their fingers together, gently pulling Sylar’s palm from his cheek and dropping their joined hands to hang casually at their side. Sylar traced along outline of his ring, twisting the cold, hard metal between his fingers until it rotated on Mohinder’s thumb. It was as if Sylar sought out everything precious to him, everything that had meaning and significance in his life and summarily tainted it with his touch. He felt violated to have Sylar fingering the ring that he had had for so long, a gift from his father in his youth that over the years had come to feel like an extension of his body.

‘I’m hungry,’ Mohinder said, aware, as soon as the words left his lips, that they were true. He had plucked the first innocuous thing that had flitted across his mind to distract Sylar from his sudden display of false affection but once said, his stomach growled and he remembered that they had not yet stopped for dinner. Sylar chuckled at the noise and nodded his head in the direction of the fast food outlet across the street.

‘I’ll go get something.’ He noticed Mohinder’s look of undisguised disgust at the prospect and laughed again. ‘Look, it’s not my first choice either but what else is going to be open? It’s not like we have time to drive around looking for something better.’

When Sylar stepped away, Mohinder found himself clinging tighter to his hand. Suddenly he felt sick to his gut, with fear not hunger, at the thought of letting Sylar out of his sight. Worse yet at the thought that he was the one to push Sylar away, to let him loose among the innocent workers, flipping burgers and manning registers, all because he was squeamish about Sylar’s embrace. Sylar stopped and turned back to him, cocking his head to the side and subjecting him to a penetrating stare that put Mohinder’s nerves on edge. He became hyper aware of the beat of his own heart and the depth of his breathing. He tried to act nonchalant, hoping that Dale’s stolen hearing didn’t give him away, but he could see already that Sylar had noticed something amiss.

The silence between them grew and then Sylar took one step further forward, crashing their mouths together. Startled, Mohinder’s lips parted and he could feel Sylar’s tongue sweeping into his mouth. The kiss was over as abruptly as it started. Sylar pulled back and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he whispered, staring intently into Mohinder’s eyes. ‘It’s just over there and won’t take long. Nothing will happen to me, I promise.’

Mohinder nodded, releasing Sylar’s hand. He watched as Sylar ducked his head against the returning snowfall and crossed the road. The restaurant had floor-to-ceiling windows and Mohinder could see straight through to the counter. Sylar turned at the door and waved at him, aware that Mohinder was tracking his every step. Mohinder leaned against the hood, focusing again on the steady click of the gas pump counter. He took cold comfort in the knowledge that the next blood spilt would be his or Sylar’s, not that of some innocent passerby. When he licked his lips, he could still taste Sylar’s kiss.

***

Mohinder wrinkled his nose at the stench of grease that permeated the car. He had cracked the window, hoping the icy cool breeze would do something to alleviate the smell, but it seemed to have settled stubbornly in the car upholstery and the fabric of their clothes. All the winter air did was raise goosebumps on the back of his neck. Even as Mohinder covered his nose with his hand, he found his own skin reeked of it without yet having laid a finger on the food. The paper bag Sylar held on his lap was spotted with translucent flecks of fat. Mohinder wondered briefly if he should take this as a sign that he would succeed in his mission – he refused to believe that this slop could possibly be his last meal.

‘Don’t look so disgusted,’ Sylar laughed. ‘It won’t kill you.’

Mohinder wasn’t sure he agreed and reluctantly took the proffered food. He propped the bag against the radio, ignoring the fries, which were covered in an unhealthily large smattering of salt. Against his will, Mohinder’s stomach grumbled again. Sylar at least had the decency to try to hide his amusement as Mohinder’s body betrayed him.

‘I’m sorry they didn’t have anything better,’ Sylar offered. ‘Apparently there isn’t much call for garden salads at 2 am. I did my best.’

‘I know, Zane. I appreciate it, honestly.’ Mohinder did his best to smile, eating a fry as a conciliatory gesture. The taste wasn’t as bad as the look or the smell. At least the oil had seemed to have been fresh when the potatoes had been fried. It wasn’t so much the food itself that Mohinder found himself recoiling from. For all his affection for the finer things in life, Mohinder admitted he had eaten far worse while at university. French fries were nothing compared to the wonders, or horrors he supposed, of Ahmed’s kebab van on Broad Street.

What really turned his stomach was the thought of taking anything willingly from the man who had killed his father. Why it was any worse than kissing him or joking with him or even just sitting beside him in the car, Mohinder couldn’t say, but it felt as if to accept something from Sylar would be taking this dangerous game one step too far. It was a ridiculous, artificial line he had created in his mind, he knew. There was no reason to spite himself, to make himself suffer, simply in the name of remaining untainted in some unfathomable way that he couldn’t really justify. So Mohinder ate another French fry, and another. He grinned at Sylar, shrugging his shoulders to indicate that maybe the food wasn’t as bad as he had expected. It sat heavily in his gut and left his fingers slick with grease, but it was filling and warming, and Mohinder could feel his flagging energy stoked once more as his stomach filled.

‘Strawberry or vanilla?’ Sylar asked, apropos of nothing.

‘What?’

‘I got milkshakes. Do you want strawberry or vanilla?’

‘Strawberry,’ Mohinder said automatically. His mind reeled at the surrealism of the question and at the utter disrespect to Dale and what had happened to her. How had this come to pass, that less than three days later they should be sitting in the same Nissan that they had driven when they found her corpse, the same Nissan that had delivered her killer to her doorstep, and drink milkshakes, like they were on some spur of the moment summer holiday? Mohinder swallowed rapidly to quash his rising anger. A damp ring of condensation collected on the knee of his jeans as he rested the milkshake on his leg, his hand clamped around the paper cup until his palm grew numb from the cold of the ice-cream.

‘They’re good, you should try it!’ Sylar insisted.

‘Maybe later.’ Mohinder couldn’t keep the coldness from his voice and from the corner of his eye he could see Sylar’s face fall. He heard the other man sigh and slurp loudly from his own milkshake. He thought of the diner in Montana where Sylar had ordered waffles and ice-cream for dinner, the plate coming piled high with cream, nuts, and chocolate syrup, and the way he had devoured it all like a ravenous beast. To think Mohinder had ever convinced himself there were understandable reasons for Zane’s bizarre behaviour.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sylar said quietly.

‘Pardon?’

It was eerie how Sylar’s words, out of context, seemed to respond so well to his thoughts. Mohinder wondered if he really wore his heart on his sleeve so obviously or if Sylar had obtained telepathy somewhere, from some poor soul – if telepathy should exist at all. Mohinder felt certain, now more than ever, that all the fantastical abilities his father had hypothesised about did indeed exist.

‘You think I’m being flippant... or that I don’t care that Dale was murdered.’

‘No, Zane, I don’t think--’

‘It’s ok, Mohinder. I know, I haven’t been... I just can’t, y’know?’ Sylar shovelled more French fries into his mouth as he spoke, seemingly belying his words before they had left his lips. He sighed unhappily, wiping his hands on his jeans and putting aside the food when he caught Mohinder’s incredulous stare. ‘If I stop and think about what happened... if I let myself, really take in how she was killed and how at any moment Sylar could catch up to us and that could be me... Mohinder, I just can’t. Not now.’

‘Zane...’ Mohinder squeezed his hand. The crack in his voice, the glance away that suggested a wetness in his eyes, the utter desperation in his tone and the sheer weight of his own conviction that soon he would be murdered too: _that_ was how Mohinder had convinced himself that Zane was really Zane.

‘Anyway,’ Sylar continued. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed loudly. Mohinder bit his tongue against the urge to warn him not to overdo his emotional confession, that overacting would only get him caught. ‘My mom never used to let me eat this kind of junk growing up. It still feels like I’m getting away with something when I eat it now. Truth is...’ he lowered his voice to a faux-conspiratorial whisper and wedged his milkshake between them, beside the gearshift. ‘I don’t even really like it.’

Mohinder laughed with him, internally rolling his eyes and wanting to find some way that he could justifiably ignore Sylar’s presence for the rest of the journey, but something about Sylar’s words piqued his interest.

‘What are your parents like?’ Mohinder asked. Maybe nothing would come of this line of enquiry, but Mohinder reasoned that in this situation, the truth was easier than lying; there was no reason to suspect Sylar knew anything of the real Zane’s parents. Perhaps he could glean some insight or some clue from Sylar’s words or his tone-- anything that might explain how someone could become what he had.

‘Oh... nothing special,’ Sylar said with a slow shake of his head. ‘They’re happy enough but I always wanted something more...’ He dropped his eyes to the front of his t-shirt, smiling to himself at the band logo and rubbing his fingers over the white imprint at the centre of his chest. ‘... I guess I wanted to be famous.’

They sat in silence for a while. Mohinder thought on Sylar’s words. He remembered, to his distaste, what Sylar had whimpered as Mohinder pleasured him by the side of the road. _Tell me I’m special_, he had begged. Could it really be that prosaic? Could all this – the death of his father, the deaths of Dale and Zane and god only knew who else, really be from some misplaced desire to stand out and be recognised? Had Sylar chosen infamy because his mother didn’t love him enough? Mohinder bit his lip hard to stop himself from snorting aloud at the thought. It was too simplistic, surely, too pathetic a reason for Mohinder’s father to have been murdered. He refused to believe it true. But still, as much as it angered him, his rational mind knew it made some sense. He tried to recall the semester’s worth of clinical psychology he had studied so many years ago. What turned a man into a murderer, his lecturer had asked. Back then, so detached from what the word meant, Mohinder had thought he knew the answer – rage, despair, hopelessness, a reckless sense of nothing to lose. Was Sylar’s life so starved of affection and purpose that killing a stranger just to take what was theirs should seem a logical step?

Sylar twisted the hem of his shirt around his fingers, still staring at the image of the Ramones emblazoned across his front. Mohinder wondered if Sylar even knew who they were beyond just ‘some band’. It angered him suddenly that Sylar should take something of such obvious significance to the real Zane and appropriate it for his own ends. It seemed almost worse than the murder or the theft of Zane’s abilities. It was as if Sylar has robbed Zane’s corpse for mementos that he didn’t even want. Sylar took merely because he could, Mohinder realised, indiscriminately like a schoolyard bully consumed with jealousy at another’s toy. Sylar had no need for the power of liquefaction. Zane had had no need for the power either, and to think that he had been killed for something that, judging from the voicemail he had left Mohinder, he would have willingly given up had there been a way, made his death seem all the more pointless and unnecessary.

‘I’ll never get a chance to be famous now,’ Sylar said quietly, almost too quietly for Mohinder to hear. He mumbled the words into his hand as he covered his mouth and turned his face away. Mohinder forced himself cover Sylar’s knee with his hand and squeeze comfortingly. He made sympathetic noises out of an inability to think of anything but the fact that that was the very dream Sylar had ripped from Zane.

‘What about you?’ Sylar asked. ‘You talked before about your father. What was he like?’

‘A good man.’ Mohinder ground out. ‘He was human and he had his flaws but he was kind and dedicated to his work. He wanted to help people like you, Zane, and he didn’t deserve to be murdered.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Mohinder struggled to keep his face impassive. Sylar stared back at him, eyes wide and expression open, looking for all the world as if he really was sorry for Mohinder’s loss. _Sadistic bastard_. Mohinder’s mind raged. Sylar wasn’t a murderer because he wasn’t loved enough. He was a murderer because he was incapable of love. All Chandra had ever done for him was to try to help, to enable him to understand his potential and his power and Sylar had murdered him in repayment.

Mohinder hadn’t thought there was such a thing as utterly irredeemable person. He had always thought that there was humanity in all, somewhere deep down a glimmer of something that could be appealed to and understood, but in Sylar there was nothing but disease and degeneracy. There was nothing about Sylar worth salvaging. Mohinder needed to believe this wholeheartedly if he was to go through with his plan. To see Sylar sitting there, in a dead man’s clothes, with a dead man’s name, and to have him feign innocence and interest in Mohinder’s father, a man whose life he had cruelly snatched away, was almost more than Mohinder could bear. Now, when Mohinder imagined what he must soon do, he had no problem visualising himself pulling the trigger.

***

Mohinder parked the car across the street from his father’s apartment block. The sky was clear and bright, midmorning sunshine masking the horror of what stood before them. Mohinder shook Sylar awake and bleary eyed. Sylar looked about the street, eyes not landing on any one building or otherwise giving away how often and how recently he had been there. Mohinder made a show of double checking they haven’t been followed. Together, they exited the car. When he slipped his key into the lock, Mohinder inhaled deeply and without hesitation opened the door. No regrets, no second thoughts. One of them would be dead before the day was out.


End file.
